


Smiley Faces

by RoseRedRowan (Ornelasse)



Series: Sad Clowns and Harlequins [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Joker (2019)
Genre: Arthur and Bruce are brothers, Ascending to the Clown Prince of Crime, Bruce Wayne begins his Batman career, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy is subjective Murray, Descent into Madness, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, F/M, Harley and Joker's relationship is non-abusive but still very dark, Harley genuinely wants to help, Harley is a good psychiatrist, Mind Games, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ornelasse/pseuds/RoseRedRowan
Summary: On the Night of Clowns, a med student by the name of Harleen Quinzel danced with the devil in the pale moonlight. Six years later, she's treating the very peculiar Mr. Fleck in Arkham, and looks like she's even being successful. But how far can her good intentions take her? And as the table turns and everything burns, it's not that clear anymore if she is saving Arthur from Joker or Joker from Arthur...
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Series: Sad Clowns and Harlequins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610890
Comments: 59
Kudos: 85





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, all non-original characters and content belong to their respective creators and copyright owners. Quotes are quotes. I'm retelling this great comic book mythos with no gain in mind.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harleen Quinzel has a good reason to be interested in talking to Arthur Fleck - the one that goes well beyond ambition or curiosity. What are the reasons for Arthur Fleck to be interested in talking to Harleen Quinzel, remains yet to be seen.
> 
> Next: Harley's methods are being questioned.

“Tell you what,” the man across her said at last. “This all reminds me of a joke.”

Naturally it would, thought Harleen, and found herself surprised by not bracing herself for yet another flare of pure and unbridled rage and spite that would normally go for jokes with Mr. Fleck. Awaiting something like that would be only natural, in turn, yet she caught herself anticipating just the opposite - a happy joke. A real joke. Something that Arthur Fleck was not even supposed to be capable of, rendered devoid of any genuine understanding of human laugh, human mirth, humanity whatsoever - but yet, as she now knew, capable of this he was. Oh he was.

Or maybe his darker than black - _black and red_ \- sense of humor was starting to rub off her, dripping comedy into tragedy.

Or maybe - just maybe - there was, after all, not much of a difference between the two.

“So... do you think I’ll get it?”

“Don’t worry, Doctor Quinzel. You will."

She looked him attentively in the eye.

“Knock knock,” he said mildly and took a drag on his cigarette.

“Who’s there?”

It was like a dance now, she thought. Talking to patients always was, in a sense. But here, with him, especially so - as if this dance of theirs was being watched, ever so closely, and she did not refer here to the people behind the security cam in the slightest.

“It’s what you have left after a human being had been trampled down upon until they were ground to dust. To the tiniest,” he flashed her a cruel smile, “of flecks.”

“And what might that be?” she asked quietly.

_What you fucking deserve._

“Either a dead man”, he said, “or a force of nature.”

Doctor Crane has been repeatedly warning Harleen against taking her work - her musings over Joker - home. She couldn’t help but feel thankful for it - with as stiff and aloof as Crane normally was with anyone, this would count as genuine care, or even friendship. He took to personally debriefing her after her sessions with Joker, keeping things as professional as they went, but throwing in some sort of an awkward pep talk after. They’ve even shared a cup of vending machine coffee a couple of times. The lukewarm concoction, sugary to the point of sticky and black as Gotham nights - _and Gotham hearts,_ a voice in Harleen’s head would pipe in then, oblivious of its own cheesiness - delivered the much needed caffeine fix alright, at the very least. And as the elderly automation, all clanking and groaning and threatening the not-so-bright-as-they-were Arkham lights with a power overload, was toiling over the brew, there was plenty of time for social interaction.

Not that Doctor Crane was particularly good at it.

But he tried. Harleen would give him that.

He’d almost never mention their time at the Gotham U together. Harleen would believe this was because Crane used to be the star PhD student, graduating in her sophomore year, and would not be aware of her presence there at all; actually, though, he was. He’d let it slip only once, just as they were waiting for coffee (and after that, coincidence or not, their shared coffee breaks would be over, not that Harleen paid that any attention at the time - but boy, did she later). He was sipping from his paper cup just as Harleen bent down to fetch her share, and something dark and intense, almost deadly, flashed in his unblinking eyes - something only a fool would have mistaken for romance.

Clowns were no fools (which Arthur Fleck had went out of his way to prove).

And neither were harlequins.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Crane said, too casually for that to be truly casual, “do you happen to realize what makes him open up to you, Doctor Quinzel?”

Harleen stilled, with her cup in hand.

_He doesn’t believe I’m real._

_He doesn’t think I’m there._

_He doesn’t remember me._

_Or does he?_

“Well,” she smiled pleasantly, “I’ve always been good with jokes. However macabre they may come.”

Crane shot her a glance - _jest, disappointment, that glimpse of pure coiling serpentine darkness again_ \- before shaking his head ever so slightly.

“Not that”, he said. “You have no fear - not one he can smell out. You never had.”

With that, he turned on his heels and wandered off down the corridor, leaving Harleen to her coffee - and to mull over the inexplicable venom in his words.

“Mister Joker… I thought we could talk about that night six years ago”, she offered cautiously during their next session. “Would that be okay with you?”

He indulged himself in a slow smile.

“Why talk it,” he said finally, “when you can watch it. Some things are better seen, not heard, don’t you agree?”

“Oh no,” Harleen said, “not the Murray Franklin show. The riots.”

“My, my. You keep surprising me, Doctor Quinzel.”

He let out a hearty laugh - a _good_ laugh, betraying he wasn’t surprised in the least - before taking another drag, exhaling and then saying simply, “No.”

“As you wish, Mister Joker,” she’s learned not to push her way around him by now. She glanced down on her notebook - the pages had been staying blank for quite a while now - and thought of adding a scribble to it for the sake of decency. Finally deciding against that, she looked at him again and met his glistening eyes - intense, lively and childlike, the closest, she understood with a chill, that he had yet ever come to contemplating killing her, if only she asked one more question, gave one more cue wrong.

“I’m sorry I said ‘riots’, Mister Joker”, she opted for honesty instead, once again. “I know they are more to you.”

“Nevermind, Doctor Quinzel”, he said bleary, the glowering and glowing clown prince retreating, clamming up in his cage of flesh. “Why would they be more than that to _you._ And anyways,” and this yet unseen by her, impenetrable gaze of his she could not decipher as much as she tried, “I prefer my memory of that night to be multiple choice”.

Despite Doctor Crane’s not-so-kindly advice, she took work home that day, as she did every day since she’d managed to secure herself as Joker’s primary therapist. This time, it was photos. Not those of a battered child - that has all been chewed over, and therapists who went down that road with Joker typically did not stay with him for long. Or stay alive for long, for that matter. It took her three months to talk Arkham and Crane into allowing him into handcuffs instead of a straightjacket again. She knew he was having insane nicotine withdrawals - pun not intended, no sir, Harleen could do better wordplay than that - and hoped that this little goodwill gesture of hers (she did not hope to coax anything out of him by that) would outweigh the probably tempting idea of snapping her neck or whatnot. He was a man of dance, and delivering death was a dance to him as well, a tailored work of art, with him ever unable to resist the music. Yet, so it seemed, he preferred Harleen to dance to some other tune - so far, at least.

As for now, she was staring at his photos, both old, of Carnival in full getup, and recent ones - police mugshots and paparazzi snaps. There were also some without grease paint, these all from Arkham, starting with his first - semi-voluntary - admission eight years ago, all Arthur yet, no Joker (at least, not on the surface), then six years ago after The Murray Franklin Show (one hell of a post-credits scene, Harleen chuckled darkly to herself), then the photos kept piling up from there. Face-paint or no face-paint, the man was a literal Benjamin Button - looking a good ten years older than his then-thirty at the start, these same ten years younger than his now-thirty-eight at the end. Swift and exuberant, blue-green eyes wide open to the bonfires and carnage and prop trinkets of the world - the only tangible treasures ever desired by him, apparently; all smiles and poetic eloquency dripping with venom, unnatural innocence terrifying in its sincerity, and something else - something Harleen couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Or maybe, contrary to whatever Crane might have thought of her, she was just afraid to.

_Either a dead man or a force of nature._

Six years ago, as Harleen was struggling to make her way through the rampaging Gotham, he looked like both.

She was among those who donned on the clown masks, of course. How could she not be. But what had started akin to a medieval carnival, with jesters crowned kings and overindulgence in brotherhood, what was meant to be an act of justice however cruel and rampant, soon took a sinister turn - even more than that, as _sinister_ was a milestone long past - a trite one, with rioters turning upon each other; a joke either fallen flat or brilliant in the darkest of ways. At that, things were back again to predators and prey, the good old two-part comedy act, with Harleen unmistakably taken for a straight man, the clown masks closing on her.

That was, until the man in red snatched her from the crowd and pulled her into a waltz - his smile and his hands bloody, the dance painstakingly precise and slow, the chorus roaring in rage and laughter, drowned out by the music he alone could hear.

He waltzed her through the square, his eyes unseeing, the crowd resignedly giving in, until they were by the biggest bonfire, and that was the first time he'd actually register her presence. For a moment, Harleen was convinced he'd push her into the flame; he scooped a pile of cash from someone's hands instead and shoved it into her arms, laughing. She guessed it might have been enough there to cover her student debt as well as to buy her a ticket into a Metropolis PhD afterwards; and, basking in the shrill and perfect beauty of the moment, she threw the money into the fire that instant.

She laughed back, and the man in red - oh how tall he was - did lean over and kiss her, his lips sticky and salty with blood that was already starting to coagulate, his breath smelling of nicotine and a sickeningly sweet tint of rot. He then lost interest, or, more likely, just stopped seeing her again - _hallucinating of her_ again, and was dragged away by the crowd.

Harleen came home unharmed that night, for no-one dared touch the Queen of the May, the companion - however briefly - of a proclaimed deity in the flesh, himself untouchable until the morning breaks and the sacrifice begins.

She’d been wanting to talk to him ever since.

Harleen signed, riffling the photos as one would a deck of cards, then laying them out face down in a futile solitaire. With each picture she then flipped over, the man in red in them grew more and more garish and ethereal, until almost inhuman.

Yet… almost, she thought.

Almost.


	2. Great expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things slowly unraveling plot-wise! Harley's got trouble at work, Jonathan Crane is a master manipulator, and a fresh idea comes up to our favorite psychiatrist. 
> 
> Next: Harley's going to see people, and Arthur might not like that one bit.

Harleen's apartment, in a somewhat better part of Gotham now that it used to be six years ago, was very cold, very empty and very clean. It went for rent with next to no furniture apart from a clothing rack, a bed and an array of kitchen utensils. She hasn't done much about that since except adding a table and some bookshelves. She didn't really mind the cold, either. An extra duvet and a heater did the thing - not that she stayed at home much anyway.

Today was her day off, but this did not change a thing. Harleen was determined to spend her day elsewhere - in fact, in a very particular place, and that involved talking to one James Gordon.

Her last scheduled meeting on Joker's progress, held as usual with Doctors Arkham and Strange and Crane, went… bad. Crane was the one who recommended her for the job in the first place, and despite what seemed to have been a falling-out between them, she would expect him to acknowledge, even if out of pure selfishness, the accomplishment she'd made - the very fact that Joker, as Crane had put it himself, was opening up at last, and to none other than Crane's own protegee.

Nevertheless, that was not how things actually went that time.

"I'm afraid we might have a problem, Doctor Quinzel," Doctor Strange said, tapping his fountain pen on his notebook. "It is true that you have indeed established some rapport with patient 4479, and your progress reports on him have been more than satisfactory. But alas, what has called for our attention this time - that is, both of my esteemed colleagues here and of the board of trustees including Mister Pennyworth and Mister Fox of Wayne Industries, is the fact that we are yet to see any actual progress to speak of. And that, Doctor Quinzel, is long overdue."

"I would like to take you up on there, Doctor Strange," Harleen said. "I believe me and Mr. Fleck have been making significant progress. He has not displayed any violent tendencies for quite some time, all things considered. He has been increasingly cooperative with me during therapy. He is exhibiting signs of being emotionally involved in whatever limited human interaction currently available to him. That looks pretty up to me if we're talking schizotypal disorder combined with severe depression. In fact, he's been nothing short of friendly as of recent."

"You said schizotypal disorder, Doctor Quinzel," Doctor Arkham piped in. He was a lean, meticulously dressed man in his late 20s, not in the least a prodigy like Jonathan Crane was, but the son and grandson of the key shareholders and thus the royal heir to the decrepit kingdom of Arkham. "If I remember correctly, both Doctor Strange and Doctor Leland's diagnosis for Arthur Fleck was multiple personality disorder combined with narcissistic disorder, was it not?"

"Yes, it was," Harleen said, "But I'm sticking to my own diagnosis so far, Doctor Arkham. You see, Mister Fleck…"

"Alias Mister Joker, is he?" Doctor Strange intervened again. "We couldn't help but notice that you keep indulging him by calling him Joker, further reinforcing these homicidal delusions of his. For someone that much convinced that the patient has no multiple personality disorder, you're doing an awful lot to give him one."

"He wouldn't respond to any other na…"

"And you've been playing to his whim, Doctor Quinzel. Patient 4479 has been manipulating you to do his bidding, and you were only happy to oblige."

"But Doctor Crane…"

"Doctor Crane is on the same page with us on that, Doctor Quinzel."

Harleen shot Crane a pleading glance; and Crane indeed stepped in.

"If I may", he said mildly and evenly, "I would like to take up the case of Mister Fleck as his primary therapist".

"I am sure that Doctor Crane is more than qualified enough to continue Doctor Quinzel's good work from here," Doctor Arkham said.

"But like you said", Harleen pleaded - _don't plead don't plead,_ "we have established an undeniable rapport there! I believe I should at least give Mister Fleck closure on his time with me as his therapist. We should avoid antagonizing him to Doctor Crane before they have even started."

Crane seemed to actually give it a thought.

"Agreed," he said finally.

"That sounds reasonable," Doctor Strange nodded.

"Then this is it," Doctor Arkham concluded cheerfully. "Your next session with patient 4479 is scheduled this Monday, isn't it? So, let's make it the closure one, and in the meantime, enjoy your weekend, Doctor Quinzel."

Harleen was outraged, and immediately after the meeting was over, she went to confront Doctor Crane in his office - to put it lightly. To put it truthfully, she snapped.

"What was this supposed to mean, Jonathan?!" she hissed, addressing him by his given name for the first time since they'd both set foot in Arkham. If Crane opted to make things personal - then guess what, she was pretty capable of that as well. "You're my supervisor, for fuck's sake, you've been debriefing me all this time, you could have talked to me first instead of bringing it to the board out of the blue! What the bloody hell was that?!"

"It was," Crane said, unyieldingly, "the fact that I care for you, Harleen. You've been feeding this Joker persona, or should I better say, it's been feeding off you. I'd say whatever, if that was about Arthur Fleck alone - the man's irredeemable at any rate, for God's sake - but he's been getting to you, and not in a good way. How many times did I have to tell you to take your time to detach, not to get obsessed? How many more times would you ignore my warning instead of heeding it? So far, we have - you have - just reinforced his delusion if anything, just as Hugo there said. I wouldn't mind if it was just about Fleck offing himself or some other lowlife in pursuit of that sorry performance art of his, or whatever he calls his murder sprees these days. I would, on the other hand, mind quite a lot if he offed _you_ , Harleen, as a result of the fact that nothing had been done to contain the Joker, who's not exactly known to be stingy about his stage partners. I need Fleck, Doctor Quinzel, not Joker. And I need him fast. And since you were so thoroughly convinced in challenging his previous diagnosis despite my best efforts, then Joker was not going anywhere on your watch, so I had to make _you_ go - for your own sake. Harleen…"

"Call me Harley," she said bitterly, "everyone does."

"Okay. Harley. It was only your best interest that I had in mind here, and…"

"The man is redeemable, Jonathan," she looked him straight in the eye. "Somewhere, somehow, however deep, he is _just Arthur._ I can see that. I just can't pin it down so far, but even if maybe - just maybe - you were right, we still couldn't do that by pitting Arthur against Joker. He has to re-embrace himself as Arthur, willingly, and you don't force that by pushing him further into self-denial. Come on, Jonathan. Don't pull the rug out from under me."

Crane stood contemplating for a moment.

"Fine, Harley," he sighed at last, having somewhat regained his composure. "Last chance. What was it again, Monday? Give me _Arthur_ this Monday. And if you do, I'll step down."

"I will, Jonathan," she promised. "You bet I will".

"And oh, Harley," Crane called after her just as she turned to leave, "one small thing. If maybe - just maybe - _you're_ right, then I think, some previously untouched detail from his past might do it. You might want to look into that."

Not that she hadn't contemplated before what Crane suggested now. That was, as she saw it, one of the key reasons that he was actually communicating with her - she knew better than pin it onto a vague assumption that he might remember a girl he (inadvertently?) saved six years ago and had one hell of a dance with after. And so what if he actually did even - she wouldn't expect him to hold any attachment to the memory. Lord, she wasn't even sure she was justified to experience some herself. No, that had nothing to do with the dance on the Night of Clowns, definitely.

To Harley, it had everything to do with her prodding attempts to glue together his past as he himself saw it, beyond dry body count and flashy crime mockumentaries. So she asked questions, not the ones he'd expect but actual little, _human_ questions about all them little, human things. Like music. And cinema (this he preferred just like his social justice - black and white and delivered with song and dance). And what did he like for breakfast. What was his favourite colour (red, _obviously_ ) and whether he liked cats (yes).

It got subtler from there. They'd talk poetry. They'd argue _aesthetics_ and then _philosophies_. Arthur, to Harleen's surprise, came off as more of an extreme situationist than a Nietzschean type. Crane seemed to have tolerated that kind of talk at the time, as the very normalcy, the _not_ do-you-want-to-talk-about-it flair of it, brought Arthur Fleck in the spotlight instead of Joker. Or maybe, it just made it harder for Harleen to actually see the Joker persona she might have been really dealing with, lulling her into a sense of false security or even power instigated by pretend commonality, by seemingly shared little human things.

They've covered it all by now, and Harleen believed she was as well-versed in Arthur's past as anyone. Yet, if Crane was right, there was something she must have missed - something that did the thing, something that would become the key. Going over what she had and hadn't done again, she discovered but two white spaces.

So this was what brought her before Police Commissioner Gordon - a tired, lanky graying man in his early 40s. Harleen took an immediate liking to him, as Gordon was not only surprisingly well-spoken for a policeman, but more than that - he genuinely seemed to care. She'd imagine he wouldn't spare a minute of his time to help Arthur, let alone actually do something for her in that department - not after what Arthur had been turning the city into - but Gordon did. True, he didn't look any happier for it. But that was already so much more than what Arkham and Strange had been doing - just leaving Arthur to rot.

"I am afraid, Doctor Quinzel, that his apartment has been rented out", Gordon said, glancing at her over his spectacles and, however weird that might have been, looking somewhat truly sorry.

"Perhaps not surprising at all," she couldn't help but shoot him a glum half-smile. "Well, given how pricey haunted houses may come and all that".

"Looked more like a slaughterhouse than a haunted house to me back then, frankly speaking", Gordon said. "At any rate, even if the owner didn't get rid of everything there, which he did, it doesn't exactly look like we have any grounds here to issue a warrant, Doctor. Joker's incarcerated, no immediate investigation procedures pending, and even if there were, it would have nothing to do with the Fleck apartment. But speaking of Miss Dumond, on the other hand…"

"Yes, Commissioner?" Harleen said eagerly.

"I think, as you're his shrink and all, maybe letting you talk to her could be a good idea. He seemed to be rather benevolent towards her, so we didn't put her under witness protection. Here," he scribbled down an address on a Post-It sticker and handed it to Harleen. "Just… be kind, Doctor. The woman is overwhelmed."

That was just the kind of advice that one would expect from Jim Gordon. And Harleen was determined to follow it.


	3. Going places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie's a good person, Gigi's a total cupcake, and Doctor Crane is a man with a plan. Also, that's not the last time we get a glimpse of Pammy.
> 
> Next: Harley deals with the aftermath, and Doctor Strange has a joker up his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda happy with how Gigi turned out. She's somewhat reminiscent of Tiffany Fox from the Batman: Telltale Series here, and who knows? She might just become that! Only not for the Batman, maybe; we all know a certain clown who has a thing for some real insane gadgets, after all ;)
> 
> Arthur leaving Randall's money and the paper flowers that he used to entertain Bruce at Sophie's doorstep before leaving to, well, be Joker didn't make it into the movie, but is mentioned in the original script.

Sophie Dumond had made it out of the Hell’s Cauldron as well, apparently. She lived now in a redbrick row house with a particularly feisty, lush garden - a rare sight for sore eyes for any true-blue Gothamite, so Harleen couldn’t help but smile.

A dark-skinned girl of maybe 13 in a Ramones T-shirt was tinkering with a scooter by the porch.

“Can I help you, Miss?” the girl called to her.

“Oh, I think, actually, yes,” Harleen made her way towards the porch, minding not to step on any vegetation that went well out of its boundaries. This reminded her of her best high school friend Pammy Isley - the girl had a green thumb indeed, and was eco-conscious to the point of geeky. Not that Harleen wasn’t geeky herself at the time, only while Pammy’s passion was eco-anarchism and all that went with it, Harleen’s was… Well, she told herself abruptly, no point rambling about that now.

“What’s that, huh?” she asked nevertheless, glancing at the scooter.

“That’s a Vespa,” the girl said proudly. “It may not look its best at the moment, Miss…”

“Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. But call me Harley, everyone does.”

“And I’m Gigi. Gigi Dumond. Look, it’s not in its top shape now, Harley, but you should have seen what it looked like when me and Babs, my friend, well, we saw it at a garage sale and then I’d be like - hey, maybe I can restore it, I’ll make it work. So see what it’s like in a couple of weeks. And you what, into bikes?”

“I used to be, yes,” Harleen said. “More like into choppers.”

“Because they’re Harleys?” the girl grinned, and Harleen giggled.

“Not anymore, anyway,” she said then. “But I gotta say, that’s some pretty impressive work I see done here.”

“Thank you, Harley. Not that I could ride it yet though, but one day I will. I want to get into a Wayne Industries internship when I’m in college,” the girl said. “They make some real insane gadgets there.”

“And I don’t doubt in the least you will. But nevertheless… Could I speak to your mother, Gigi?”

And that was when the things went sour.

“No,” Miss Dumond said, not even bothering to listen through the mandatory good-day-to-you-my-name-is-Harleen-Quinzel opening lines. “I said no. No talk shows, no interviews, no more questionings. Whoever you may be, please go away.”

“But it is commissioner Gordon that gave me your address…”

“Comissioner Gordon may give my address all he likes - in fact though, I’m not really sure about that - but he can’t make me talk to anyone. Especially about Arthur Fleck. It’s him why you came here, isn’t it? Well then,” she added calmly but sternly, “you heard me, Miss Quinzel. The answer is no. I’m sick and tired of this unhealthy publicity, it’s doing no good both to me and my daughter, and I wouldn’t want to move cities, but looks like one day I will.”

“Miss Dumond. Please. I’m not a journalist, and I’m not with the police. I work in Arkham, I’m Arthur Fleck’s psychiatrist. I’m trying to make it better. It’s just… you are the only person from his past that he doesn’t talk about. Pointedly.”

Something softened in Sophie Dumond’s face, and after a pause, she stepped back from the door, motioning for Harleen to come in.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t know if there’s anything to talk about, anyway,” she said then, while making them both coffee in a small, sunny red and white kitchen full of lingering smell of roses that was seeping in from the garden. “I didn’t even know him, not really. We ran into each other in the elevator once, and then… then one day I just forget to lock the door, he comes in, and that is pretty creepy. It’s not like he did anything bad, no. It’s not like he did anything at all, come to think of it. He just… sat there. And wouldn’t go. And when I asked him to go, he made that… pretend pistol thing.”

She mimicked the gesture with her hand. _Pow._

“And then he left. That was all. I’ve never seen him again. Except for, you know, live on air.”

“Didn’t he say anything?” Harleen asked.

“No, not really. He said… he’d had a bad day. But that’s what anyone would say, right?” She laughed uneasily. “I mean, we live in Gotham of all places. Anyone here has had a bad day, every day.”

“I guess... one indeed can say so”.

“So, don’t know if this helps, but if it does, I’d be happy,” Miss Dumond said, her face softening somewhat further. “I guess… looks like he’d really had it bad that day. Worse than most.”

“So I take it, you have no ill feelings for my patient?” Harleen asked, taking another sip of her coffee.

“Of course not. Why would I? I mean, yes, he’s definitely grown to be a monster, he’s effectively turned the city into Bedlam in a few years, and I can’t stand him as much as any Gothamite would, but back then… I don’t know. I just don’t know. I watched the show, you know. I mean, I guess he was somewhat right about having been pushed to it. What he took up to next, though, it’s the wholly other story. I just wish he didn’t leave that money on our doorstep back then.”

“Money?”

“Yes, money. And some paper flowers, you know? The magic tricks kind. I handed it all in to the police of course. I mean, me and Gigi… Life’s been pretty hard on us those days, but who’d take blood money? So all he did was make us a coveted prize for journalists. Vicki Vale no less.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Miss Dumond.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Doctor Quinzel. Just… don’t tell him you’ve met me, okay? I don’t want him to know where I live, in case he ever makes it out of Arkham.”

“Which is highly unlikely,” Harleen said, finishing her coffee and getting up. “But of course, I would never have shared it with him, Miss Dumond. Thank you very much for your time.”

“I’ve heard it all through the window, actually,” Gigi called after her, as Harley was going for the wicket. “You could have asked me, you know. I remember him alright.”

That stopped Harleen in her tracks.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you saw him that night. And as a psychiatrist, I don’t really think it’s appropriate...”

“Oh come on Harley. It’s not like this is about some of his… _creepy_ stuff anyway,” Gigi grinned. “And no, not that night. I was in the elevator.”

Harleen, as a trained psychiatrist and as a sane and reasonable individual, knew better than most that questioning a kid about Joker, however enthusiastic said kid might be, without their parent’s consent or notice, was totally off-limits. But… but this was Joker-related. _Arthur_ -related. And the pull was irresistible.

It’s not like I’m being like a dirty cop here or something, she told herself half-heartedly. What harm could a little talk do?

“So… what was he like, then? Back in the elevator.”

“I’d say… he was nice. Kind. Like, really kind,” Gigi said thoughfully. “He smiled at me, you know, like, for reals. I mean, at first he didn’t, like he was afraid to look at me, like Mom or me, we’d lash out at him or something, but then I smiled at him and he smiled back. He was happy to see me smile. I remember thinking, like, wow, that dude is funny. He’d make a great party clown. I think I liked clowns back then.”

“And do you now?” Harleen asked, somewhat amused.

“Nah, they’re stupid. No offence to Mistah J,” Gigi chirped, resorting to one of the nicknames that the TV gave him, “I don’t think he’s stupid, he’s just bats, and that’s not the same thing, is it? But clowns, they’re like… for kids. Unlike bikes. Or guns.” She pointed her finger at Harleen and laughed. “Pow-pow.”

“I hope you understand, Doctor Quinzel, that this session will be supervized”, Crane said as they were going down the corridor of maximum security wing, towards the interrogation room where Harleen and Arthur’s meetings would normally take place.

“Yes, of course. Aren’t they always?” she quirked her brow, nodding at the security cams lining the building.

“Closer than usual. I’ll be behind the one-way mirror with another crew of orderlies, and Doctor Strange will be watching the session on cam in real time. I think you understand, Harleen,” he added, slipping - seemingly non-deliberately - into his more humane mode, “this might be your big day, yet again. But if it is, I don’t know how he’ll react, and neither do you.”

“If you must, then,” she shrugged.

“Tell me at least,” Crane said, “did you manage to dig something up to throw him?”

She winced, at the animalistic crudeness of the expression, but quickly restrained herself.

“In fact, I think I did.”

She nodded to the four orderlies standing outside of the interrogation room, two of whom took off immediately to follow Crane into the adjacent door, then punched in the 4-digit code and entered.

Her patient was already seated across the table from her, as usual, handcuffed arms folded. A tremor in his knee did somewhat betray that he was displeased with the wait (Crane had fiddled for quite some time with papers in his office before finally joining Harleen, and per Doctor Strange’s orders, she had to wait to take him along this time). But Joker’s face, nevertheless, came off as calm - in fact, almost tranquil.

“Good to see you, Doctor Quinzel,” he said, rather amiably. “So, what is it going to be today?”

“I see you’re feeling alright, Mister Joker.”

“Now that you’re here, I am,” he grinned. She knew better than to take that for an actual flirtation though - just one of his most default, one-size-fits-all theatrics. He sort of reveled in adopting that suave vibe that he actually despised - but the audience, as he’d once told her, needed a cheaper gag once in a while.

“But seriously - can I be serious with you, Doctor Quinzel? - that new medication scheme you’ve prescribed, it does me some good, I think.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, Mister Joker. But could you please elaborate?” she had her pen at the ready.

“Well… how do I put it, Doctor,” he rolled his eyes, as if trying to nail the word, although she was pretty sure that whatever he had to say now, he had rehearsed beforehand. “It… doesn’t numb.”

“I see. So I get it, it doesn’t do anything about your homicidal urges,” she smirked. She knew he would get the joke.

The man across her, indeed, giggled.

“I didn’t say that,” he protested then, playfully. “I just said it doesn’t numb. You of all people should know I’m not all homicidal urges by now, don’t you think?”

_Well. Now or never._

“In fact,” Harleen said, “I do. You’re perfectly capable of selfless and benevolent acts as well, Mister Joker.”

“Ah, performance arts are the most selfless thing there is, my dear. All give and no take.”

“I’m talking about more down-to-earth examples here though, Mister Joker,” she said, glancing down on her notebook again. “Like, say, when you left all the money you took from Mr. Randall Price to your neighbour, Miss Sophie Dumond…”

Something did change in the very air then. Drastically.

She raised her eyes and stilled, terrified.

He was looking at her with a stiff, contorted face, like that in death throes, eyes supernaturally big, and hollow with wrath and agony. His mouth went a bit lopsided and opened slightly, but no sound came out of it so far - and when it did, it was as quiet as fallen leaves’ rustle that a snake was making its way through.

“You disappoint me, Doctor Quinzel”, he spoke at last, deadly and lowly. “I’d say your performance today is an underachievement. I’m not amused. Not. One. Bit.”

At that, several things happened.

First, Joker lunged over the table and in a moment he was on top of her, wrapping her throat in the chain of his handcuffs.

Second, Crane and the orderlies barged in, with drawn syringes, and pulled him off the struggling Harleen - who then managed, between wheezing and coughing, a hoarse shrill of “Leave him alone, I’m fine!”, but in truth, that went almost inaudible - or maybe Crane and his cavalry just chose to ignore whatever she uttered.

And third, Joker shot a last glance at her before rolling his eyes and going limp in the hands of the orderlies, and as they hauled him away before escorting Harleen out of the interrogation room, she honestly wished for a moment that he’d rather strangled her for good.


	4. Heart to heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley's paying some visits, none of which go as expected. Arthur is done with his stand-up act.
> 
> Next: Jonathan's tapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to get better after this, folks, I promise. Not until they get yet a little bit worse, though. 
> 
> Also, please feel free to tell me your opinion, I'd be the most happy to hear it! :)

After the spectacular fiasco, and a three days' sick leave, Harleen was informed by Doctor Strange that Joker's case had indeed gone to Jonathan Crane. It would have been pretty naive to hope otherwise though. She, in turn, would be taking some of the recently admitted patients that would normally be Crane's. Harleen was okay with that. Harleen was okay with pretty much everything by that point. Nothing mattered. 

They called Joan Leland in from her vacation to debrief Harleen as long as Crane's hands were full. So it was Joan who went straight to the point. 

"I suppose this might about closure," she said. "Neither of you had it in the end, in fact."

"I know. I just didn't think that…" Harleen gestured vaguely. "I'm supposed to be mad at it, am I not? This should have been the pivotal point in my career, I was extremely invested, I thought I was doing some pretty good work. And then I slip up, my token patient goes for my throat and is understandably snatched from me. I should be mad. Jealous. Nervous about my prospects. Anticipating whoever Hugo will now assign to me. But I don't care. I'm sad. I'm just sad."

"I see," the older woman looked at her sympathetically. "But with that in mind, Harleen, I'd say it's a good thing that the events unfolded as they did. Actually, I think Jonathan might have been right about Fleck's case getting to you in an unhealthy way. You're mourning being called off this assignment like one would mourn a loss of a friend. Your reaction, I daresay, comes off… personal. You can't have that, Harleen, or you'll burn out, and quickly."

"I know," she said. "I know."

Joan's words lingered. Maybe she'd opened up to Arthur more than she thought. Maybe their disputes had been a two-way street after all. Or maybe he was just the master manipulator that Strange pictured him to be - didn't matter. What did matter though, was that some part of Harleen probably considered the bond, inevitable to emerge between doctor and patient, to be a friendship abruptly and cruelly lost, with none other but herself to blame for it. His final gaze… he _hurt,_ hurt like hell, and she saw it. She gave him pain, shoving his _bad day_ down his throat by handful, stabbing him in the back just as he'd grown to trust her. It was awful. She felt _awful_ because of it.

But maybe, if she talked to him one last time as she would to a friend, that part of Harleen that considered him to be one would be satisfied, and then she would be able to move on. 

So the next day after their debriefing session with Joan, she went down to maximum security wing. An orderly was posted outside Joker's cell at all times, in case the patient would start banging his head on the walls again or _werewolf and go wild_ all of a sudden, and Harleen saw with displeasure that this day it was one Frank Boles. A dishonorably discharged ex-military, he reveled in petty violence towards inmates and dished it out whenever he could. He saw and presented himself as a tough commando and a Byronic deadpan snarker, but Harleen could see him for who he was - an alcoholic, a neurotic and a coward. 

She wasn't ashamed to admit she hated his guts. 

"Whoa, whoa, Doctor Quinzel," he greeted her. "Long time no see. Didn't you give way to your pal Crane there though?"

"And good day to you too, Mister Boles," Harleen said, icily. "Your intel happens to be right. I'm not here to see my former patient in session."

"Then you're not seeing him, that simple," he scoffed. "Arkham's orders."

"Oh are they now, Mister Boles."

"Aye-aye. So why don't you go on your merry way, Doctor Quinzel."

"Hmm," she said, "I'm afraid not. It's not like you are in position to forbid me anything, Mister Boles, while I'm perfectly in position to get you fired. So if you're going to have a problem with me, feel free to take it to Doctor Arkham and I assure you he'll be happy to take it from there. Along with the multiple sightings of you intoxicated on duty, though, and don't you think that all the patients' complaints filed against you had gone anywhere. In fact, I saw to it that they hadn't. Doctor Strange may have swiped those under the carpet, but if the annual inspection might feel like hearing about them sometimes in his absence, I'd be only happy to oblige."

"Well, don't you come running to me if he cuts you up with a playing card then, you insolent entitled brat," he muttered under his breath, loud enough to be heard, quiet enough not to be called out about it, then punched in the code and stepped aside, glaring. Harleen jerked her head up and entered Joker's cell, triumphant. 

Her mood soured immediately as she saw Joker sit hunkered down on his cot in a straightjacket, eyes down and lips moving soundlessly. He glanced at her, and then it got worse - he laughed. That smothering, shrill, monotonous, deafening wail of a laugh - the one that she hadn't heard from him in quite some time. And when his body gave in and he could laugh no more, he wheezed, contorting against the wall, the straightjacket making it look unbearable - but as Harleen motioned towards him, maybe to take the damn thing off him against all reason, he recoiled - and fixed her with a stare full of hatred. 

"What are you doing here, Quinzel?" he managed at last, finally catching his breath. "You're not my therapist anymore, are you?"

"No," she said softly. "No, I'm not."

"Than what do you want from me? Haven't you done enough?"

"As far as I recall it, it's you who tried to strangle me," she remarked. 

"So that's what this is about?" he raised a brow, sarcastically. "Poor Doctor Quinzel holding a grudge against little ol' me? Well, I'd say you've retaliated enough. Poking at me. At my head. At my very _soul._ For _months._ Then writing me off to your dear friend Crane to tear what's left of me to shreds in your footsteps, gleefully. That was a good one, Doc. A real killer."

"I didn't write you off to Crane, if you're interested. And no, him and me, we're not friends. There hasn't been any conspiracy between us against you. They took me off your case after, as much as I hate to point it out again, you tried to kill me. They thought I'm a failure."

"And that is what you resent me for. Your ruined career. I get it. So, back to business. What can I do for you on this fine day, Doctor Quinzel? I'd snap your neck and put you out of your misery, but as you can see, my hands're a little bit… tied."

"I don't resent you," she said quietly. "I didn't come here to gloat, Ar… Joker. I just want to know why."

"I'm crazy. That's why. Am I not? Is it not the whole point of me being here?"

"Really."

"Well. If you have to know. It's just… how long did I have to wait for the punchline, Doctor Quinzel?"

"Excuse me?"

"I thought you're getting it," he muttered as if to himself. "I really thought you were getting it. And then… instead of delivering, you go and ruin the ending, being just a prop. Like everyone else. Well then, the joke's on me."

"I meant to…"

"Go, Quinzel. Just go. Before I've figured out how to get out of this wrap," he sighed. "And give my kindest regards to Doctor Crane if you will. He's nowhere as good as you were, but know what, I think it's actually for the better."

"I'm sorry," she said helplessly. "I mean, if you need anything…"

"I need to die," he cut her off. "I need to get out of here. I need my grease paint, and my suit and my props, and my journal. What I definitely don't need, though, is you vultures clawing at me any longer. Now go, I said. Out."

And out she went.

  
  


In a week, Harleen was asked to come by Doctor Strange's office. He nodded at her from behind his redwood desk strewn with papers, with somewhat of a weird expression - not really a frown and not quite a smirk. 

"I've been approached by Francis Boles," he said instead of a greeting or any formal pleasantries ( _how are you feeling Harleen, does your throat hurt Harleen_ ). "You've been paying visits to Joker. That's not happening. I hear of it again - you go on paid leave until further notice. Am I being clear?"

"Perfectly," Harleen said. 

"Good. Now, for the bright side, because that Boles issue is obviously yesterday's news. You won't require unsolicited contact with your former patient, as you will have plenty of opportunities for solicited contact, if you so please. Looks like Mr. Fleck is soon going to have his rec room and cafeteria privileges restored. He has become decidedly less violent, and given up that clown vigilante persona of his."

_"What."_

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean," Harleen struggled, "I've worked with him for four months, and we only got as far as… And here… it's barely been a couple of weeks..."

Doctor Strange waved her down, the smirk part of his expression growing significantly more profound. 

"And that is precisely why I have called for you. Come here, Doctor Quinzel. Take a look how it's done."


	5. What you are in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Crane has not been dubbed Scarecrow for nothing.
> 
> Next: Harley tries to make amends, and reaches out to an unexpected ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, so fair warning: this is getting extremely emotionally dark here. We'll see Mr. J get back at the Scarecrow for it, I promise. But as for now... well, proceed at your own risk.

_Tape clicks._

**June 17, 1987. Doctor Jonathan Crane in session with patient 4479.**

Q: Good day to you, Mr. Fleck. Today, I’d like to talk to you about your night at Mr. Franklin’s. 

Q: Giving me the silent treatment again is not going to get you anywhere, Mr. Fleck. I’ll be talking to you regardless. 

Q: Fine. So be it. 

Q: What I had in mind, though, is the particular remark you that made at Mr. Franklin’s show six years ago. How was it again, exactly? Aha, there it is, Mr. Fleck. “I’ve got nothing left to lose. Nothing can hurt me anymore.” I’ll tell you what, Mr. Fleck, I’ve been watching the show that night. Everyone did. And I should admit, that hit me. A rather strong statement that you made there. A very impressive thing to say. That you have no fear - do you? But I believe that you do. 

_Patient 4479 cackles._

A: I believe you have plenty. 

Q: Which is perfectly natural. Fears, Mr. Fleck, are the things to be pinned down, uncovered, and then confronted. They’re meant to be dragged into the spotlight, not thrown into the basement to rot. Thus, and thus only, one is to become stronger. Something more than they used to be. Isn’t it what you craved back then, Mr. Fleck?

A: Isn’t it what you crave all the time, Jonathan? 

Q: Beg your pardon?

A: Power, Doctor Crane. Towering over a trembling, weeping adversary, watching them being torn apart. The electrifying intoxication. Being on top at last. I’m not a stranger to the treat myself, as you well know, but my, my… Isn’t it the cheapest gag. I’d say, only greed would be cheaper. 

Q: Ah, so we’re getting personal now, Mr. Fleck. Well, I don’t mind. But let us not stray away from the topic, though. As I have been saying, I’m positively sure that you are no stranger to fear. I’d rather put it even, to crippling, gut-wrenching terror. Not as of recent, probably, but I wonder… what was your coping mechanism when you’d experience that before? But _of course._ Nothing has ever changed, has it? You still react just like you used to. Laughter. Song. Dance. You’re still terrified, aren’t you, Mr. Fleck?

A: Go on, Jonathan. You put a smile on my face. 

Q: I certainly hope I do. As educational our little encounters might be, I don’t have all the time in the world for them, to tell you the truth, and since I hope this to be our final meeting held in such circumstances, I’d be only happy if you enjoyed it as well. So, back on track. Fear. I’ve been toying with that thought for a while, Mr. Fleck. I wonder, I’d say to myself, what does this man have to dread that badly? Seemingly, he’s telling the truth. Fear of abandonment? Check. Revenge matricide, classic move. Fear of rejection or sexual frustration? Check. Happened to you a lot, Mr. Fleck, didn’t it? Yet here you are, worse for wear. Fear of publicity and social interaction? _Checkmate._ Don’t we all know that your Joker persona has none of those laughing fits. Getting institutionalized again? Oh _please._ So I’ve been asking myself: what is he scared of now? And then the sweet, _innocent_ Doctor Quinzel…

_Patient 4479 laughs._

Q: ...poor Doctor Quinzel just hops right in and treads on your toes. _Nailing_ it. The one thing you never mentioned, did you? And what a surprise, seeing that it turned out to be the thing definitely worth mentioning. The one solid point you could make in favor of your vigilante pretense. An unquestionable, wholesome intent for a good deed, a glimpse of final redemption. You should have _reveled_ in it, being the champion of the downtrodden and wronged that you are. And yet, you choose to drag it off-stage by the neck, to the point of snapping into murderous rage if anyone digs it up. Even if that happens to be the one person that was genuinely nice to you in here. The one that actually cared, much more so than you ever deserved. 

_Patient 4479 giggles._

Q: Nuh-uh, Mr. Fleck, I'm not done here. I haven't delivered the punchline yet. Now, stop me if you heard this one before; but might that be that you aren't actually sure what happened? Might that be that this knightly gesture, this undeniable act of kindness could prove anytime to have existed in your daydreams only, if properly elaborated upon? And how many more of those, if that was to be the case? Are you terrified of your own non-existence, _Joker?_ Are you afraid that you don't exist?

_Shrill, high-pitched laughs._

Q: I'll tell you what. You _don't._ Your Joker persona, Mr. Fleck, is a textbook coping strategy of an infantile sociopath, an amateur act that nobody finds funny. The audience is heading for their coats, Mr. Fleck. You promised them the Joker, the Harlequin of Hate, the Jester of Genocide, the Ace of Knaves, the Clown Prince of Crime, but all they got was an empty stage. For there is no Joker, Mr. Fleck, and there never was. For all this time, it has been you. Just you. And you, _Arthur_ , maybe stand a chance yet. That's why I'm here to help. But pray keep in mind - in the very much likely event that you don't, there is no Joker to save you. 

_Patient 4479 laughs uncontrollably._

_Tape clicks._

**June 26, 1987. Doctor Jonathan Crane in session with patient 4479.**

Q: Good morning, Mr. Fleck. How are you feeling today? 

A: How... do you think I feel?

Q: No, no, _wrong,_ Mr. Fleck. Wrong answer. Let’s try again. How are you feeling today?

A: Okay. I’m feeling okay. 

Q: Okay, and?..

A: Okay and happy. I’m feeling okay and happy. 

Q: Well, there you are. Isn’t it wonderful. What a lovely world would it be if everyone was feeling like you are today, Mr. Fleck, wouldn’t it? Don’t you think a happy world would be nice?

Q: _Mr. Fleck._

A: Yes. 

Q: “Yes, I think…”

A: Yes, I think a happy world would be nice. 

Q: Marvelous. There we go. There’s empathy. Looks like your new medication scheme is good for you. Do you agree with me, Mr. Fleck?

A: Yes, I do. I do.

Q: Haven’t we made good friends, I say! Always in agreement on everything. But I’d like to discuss your medication with you some more. Feedback is very important. You are supposed to be having dreams at night, Mr. Fleck. A special, colorful kind of dreams. Do you?

A: I think… I think I do. 

Q: Do you like these dreams, Mr. Fleck?

A: I… I don’t really think so, Doctor Crane.

Q: Now, that’s too bad. I wouldn’t want you to experience anything you don’t like, Arthur. Care to tell me about those dreams you don’t like, then?

A: I’d… rather not, Doctor Crane. I… don’t... want to. Don’t want to talk about it. 

Q: Oh no no _no,_ Arthur, that won’t do. That just won’t do. If you want me to help you with the dreams, if you want them to go away, you must tell me. I can’t help you until you tell me. 

_Patient 4479 laughs._

Q: Do you want me to help you, Arthur? Do you?

_Patient 4479 laughs._

Q: Orderlies. Sedation.

A _(laughing):_ No! Please no! 

Q: So you want me to help you, Arthur? Want me to help you with the dreams?

A: Yes! Yes!

Q: Then tell me! 

A: It is… The dream… It is always the same dream. I dream of coming home. Back to my old apartment. Sometimes I’m coming back from work. Check for mail. Sometimes it starts with the elevator. But it’s always about coming home. 

Q: Do you wear your grease paint then, Arthur? 

A: No. No, I don’t. 

Q: Good. Tell me what happens next.

A: I come in. I want to see Mom. Then I realize… I realize I’m in Sophie’s apartment. I need to go away. I’m going for the door. There’s no door. Not anymore. The walls - they’re starting to close on me. Then… then I see Harleykins. 

Q: Harlequins?

A: Yes. Yes. Harleykins. 

Q: Does it scare you?

A: It does. It is the scariest part. I’m telling her she’s not real. Nothing of it is real. I tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made her up. And then… then it gets even scarier. 

Q: Oh?

A: She says she was real. She says I killed her. _He_ killed her. 

_Patient 4479 laughs._

Q: What a… development. Thank you, Arthur, you did a very good job today. Orderlies, sedation. 

  
  


_Tape clicks._

**June 30, 1987. Doctor Jonathan Crane in session with patient 4479.**

Q: Good morning, Arthur. How are you feeling today?

Q: Arthur. 

Q: _Arthur._ You have to be responsive. 

A: _[unintelligible]_

Q: I’m sorry? How are you feeling today?

A: …’appy.

Q: One more time for me, please.

A: I’m feeling okay and happy.

Q: Good to hear that. And what exactly makes you feel happy today, Arthur? 

A: …’em dreams.

Q: My, my. You’re not putting any _effort_ in this, Arthur. This is just being rude.

A: No! No, I’m not being rude. I didn’t want to be rude, Doctor Crane. I’m sorry.

Q: Good. Good. So, let’s try that again. Why are you feeling happy?

A: I’m here. It’s daytime. I don’t have them dreams. 

Q: What dreams? The Harlequins dreams, Arthur?

A: Yes. Yes. Those dreams. I’m awake now. So I don’t have ‘em. 

Q: Look how tweaking your dosage a bit did wonders, Arthur. So good to be lucid, isn’t it? Not chasing your… little daydreams anymore, I see? So, what do we say to the doctor, Arthur?

A: _[unintelligible]_

Q: No. No, not that. Please try again. 

A: Thank you, Doctor Crane. 

Q: You are welcome. 


	6. Riddles with hints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley shows her hand, and gets some mail. 
> 
> Next: Arthur can't hold his grudge against Doctor Quinzel. Or... can he? Anyway, things are definitely going places. The question is, which places exactly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Eddie! The Riddler's just in the beginning of his infamous career here, but I think after Harley and Mr. J go full-time celebrity supervillains, he'll be one of their most trusted friends. Well... companions. Well... occasional business partners. Well... Let's just say that I hope that Mr. J won't be prone to shoot him on sight. 
> 
> Also I'm positively determined to weave in as many iconic Mad Love moments as possible without ruining the tone.

Harleen was never particularly good about keeping her composure. 

That was what her parents told her. That was what her ex-fiance told her. Hell, that was even what Pammy used to tell her, before they parted ways. _You're always kinda revved up, Harls. You gotta be more grounded._

But that day, she pulled off some impeccable acting. She elaborated how impressed she was with Doctor Crane's incredible efficiency. She also threw in some praise of modern pharmaceuticals _(wasn't it just_ _fantastic)_. She didn't neglect to mention how glad she was to see her ex-patient get better. And, naturally, she spiced it up with an appropriate dash of shame about not having been able to manage that herself. 

Then she went home, and thrashed her apartment to bits. 

"You condescending sadistic prick!" she yelled, repeatedly swinging the metal rod from the clothing rack into the pillows, sending a whirl of feathers in the air. "You goddamn bloodsucking maniac!" The dishes and mugs on the counter jumped, before being swept off it to their demise. "You fucking crazy son of a…" 

The mirror on the wall shattered under the rod, showing a jigsaw puzzle of furious and exhausted Harleens, whose pale blonde hair, wet from sweat, clang to their flushed and contorted faces. A random piece of broken glass left a thin red line on her cheek, that was already starting to ooze with blood, and as she saw it, a memory from six years ago pierced her. 

_Imagine him, from back then, caressing your cheek now and putting a smile of blood on your face._

_Just like the one_ he _had._

"You'll pay for it," she breathed out soundlessly, dropping to her knees at last and letting the metal rod fall out of her hands and clang away. "I swear to dear God, Jonathan Crane, you'll pay for it."

A thought then occurred to her that, if she were to be in some comic book movie, a roll of thunder would have sounded at that - or maybe some ominous music. She chuckled darkly. But this was no comic book; this was Gotham. So the only sound that came was the buzzing of the doorbell - the neighbors from downstairs were most likely not very amused with the mayhem. 

Harleen just pretended she wasn't there. 

When the buzzing stopped, she got to bandaging her hands - her fingers turned out to have it bad from residue glass shards also - and cleaning up the mess. 

Heck, she muttered to herself as she did so, am I too gonna pay for it.

  
  


The next time she saw her former patient, was in a week from then - in a rec room, just as Doctor Strange had announced. He was handcuffed, despite being visibly heavily medicated, and sat slumped in a chair in front of the TV. He looked closer now to his before-Joker self. With supernatural youthfulness, piercing wits and lighthearted spite of death all stripped from him by Crane’s treatment, all that was left was a sorry, battered middle-aged man. 

She wanted to come up to him and say she was sorry again, sorry for hurting him by hitting that nerve, sorry for playing blindly into Crane’s hands and thus contributing for _this_ to happen - say sorry until he heard her. But she knew well enough that if she did just that, she’d be escorted out at best, put on her leave at worst. So she stayed behind the bulletproof glass of the orderlies’ booth for now, and waited for the events to unfold. 

Which they did quite soon - thanks to a certain person of the would-have-been-Crane’s bunch, whom Harleen’s been now treating from some severe OCD, kleptomania and narcissistic personality disorder. 

“Riddle me this,” a wiry young man with a pleasant sharp, freckled face with nothing visibly outstanding about him except for the nervous tick of licking his lips, approached Fleck and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “I am so fragile that saying my name breaks me. What am I?”

The man in front of the TV tensed and said nothing.

“Silence,” the young man explained. “It’s silence. Is it… excuse me, do you happen to watch _Buster Keaton_ here? As much as I should agree that your taste in movies is quite elaborate, you’ve spent enough time here having the telly for yourself. So, sorry to say, but your _One Week_ here will have to wait for a little bit longer.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Harleen interjected, as the orderlies tensed looking at the scene. “Mr. Nashton is my patient, after all.”

She strolled out of the booth and made her way to the TV area, where Eddie Nashton was still towering over the stuporous Arthur Fleck. 

“That’s enough, Mr. Nashton,” she retorted, boldly coming between them. “Leave Mr. Fleck here alone. I’m sure your impressive intellectual capacity is well above Gotham TV level at any rate.”

“Fine. But riddle me this, Doc,” Nashton bent down to her and whispered, “I get broken without being held. What am I?”

_A promise._

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Nashton,” she said as coldly and professionally as she could. “Now, go.”

Eddie grinned at her maliciously, and retreated. Boy, thought Harleen, wasn’t she now going to have to treat him for this little spectacle - with _a lot._

But then, that was worth it. 

She had about a couple of minutes now. 

She sat down next to Joker and patted him on his limp right hand. Eddie had obviously meddled with the TV, and a cartoon cat was now chasing a cartoon canary across the screen - with much carnage. 

“Listen,” she blurted under her breath. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry I was played into what has been done to you. I’ve never meant this to be but I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, and I’ll be sorry for it forever. But if I can do anything for you yet… anything for you at all… I want you to know - you _exist._ I know that because _I_ exist. You saved my life, back six years ago, and you danced with me. And… and that night, I think, _I got it._ I felt truly alive, like _myself,_ for the last time in my life then, I guess, but the thing is - I remember you. _I remember you._ You exist. You were there.”

Silence. 

She heard an orderly cough and noticed them glancing at her worriedly. 

“Here,” she slipped a tablet plate into his scrubs’ pocket. “This should help your system block out whatever Crane dopes you with, if my knowledge about what he’s been working on is correct. It’s… it’s the least I can do for you after what you did for me back then. And after I was tricked into dragging you into… _this._ ”

Silence. 

Heartbroken, she moved to get up and go away - and then, in the last moment, there was it. 

The slightest brush on her fingers.

He, featherlightly, patted her trembling hand with his left. 

  
  


Eddie Nashton wasn’t through with her, in the slightest. He got all she’d promised him for helping her pull that little stunt - she’d been bringing him books from the outside, as Nashton considered the Asylum’s own library to be _lousy_ at best, and, frankly, he had a point, and she’d also made it two hours rec room a week instead of one for him. But that was clearly not enough for the little manipulative bastard. Harleen wondered vaguely, whether she should be worried about letting herself be dragged in a situation when she was blackmailed by a patient. But then again, comparing this to sabotaging another doctor’s prescription, along with compromising a patient’s progress and probably conspiring with a mass murderer slash domestic terrorist slash vigilante slash imaginary persona… Eddie Nashton was currently the least of her problems.

In fact, true to his shtick, he might have been a solution.

In one of their sessions, he motioned for her to put the tape recorder on pause, and, cupping his lips with his hands - _the cams,_ Harleen understood - he whispered:

“I might have a piece of news for you, Doctor Quinzel. Good news. I’d even say, _funny._ ”

She quirked her brow.

“Now is it, Mr. Nashton?”

“Riddle me this,” he blurted instead of an answer. “I begin with an “e” and only contain one letter. What am I?”

“An envelope. I’ve heard this one before. What are you?...”

“Let’s just say,” he grinned, “a mutual acquaintance has employed me to assist him in dropping you a line. For a reasonable price, of course.”

“Oh,” so there was no time to fool around. “What do you want from us, Mr. Nashton?”

_Us._

_Didn’t she just say_ us?

_On the other hand, going down the deep end and risking her whole career to help Joker recover from Crane’s so-called treatment… this, she believed in all honesty, might have constituted for something along the lines of an ‘us’._

“A-ha, just as he said you’d get it. I want more books. Also, I want my psychiatric evaluation in a month to show I’m a fully reformed, sane and productive member of our beloved society. That’s what I want from you, and that isn’t much, is it? What I want from him, is between him and me, and what he wants from you… Here.” He leaned across the table to shield his hands from the camera, and produced a piece of paper from up his sleeve. Harleen pocketed it immediately, with her best point-blank face. 

“See you next week, Mr. Nashton.”

“Yup, Doc. See you.”

  
  
As soon as she was in the safety of her office, she unfolded the note. It was a slip of paper crudely torn from a coloring book, a segment of a mandala twirl evident on the other side, nauseatingly reminiscent of a kaleidoscope or a hypnotist’s spiral pendant. And on the white side, read just one phrase, hastily scrawled in red crayon ( _but of course, they’re not stupid enough to trust him with a pencil yet, are they)._

**“Come and see me sometime. - J.”**


	7. Down the looking glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley and Arthur come to agree on quite a lot of things, but not on methodology.
> 
> Next: Harley's considering her options, while an old acquaintance comes to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harley is still hoping she'd find a way to cure Mr. J while letting him keep his wits and self-esteem about, and that'd be all. Uh-oh. 
> 
> I've also tried to show that, while the Clown Prince of Crime persona is basically Arthur's true self, he's still secretly craving for trust and acceptance and can't help feeling touched when someone who pretty much knows all about his murder sprees and numerous Arkham stints at this point, still thinks of him high enough to trust him with a lighter.

Jonathan Crane’s arrogance would be his downfall one day, Harleen reckoned. The man was so eager to rub his triumph in everyone’s faces that he’d approved moving Joker from his former cell to one with more lenient conditions, albeit still in maximum security wing. Nevertheless, there were no 24/7 armed sentries posted at his door anymore, just ordinary patrolling rounds, and the door itself had a food tray slot and a plexiglass bull’s eye. The latter revealed a cot, a sink and a tiny table bolted to the floor by the cot, with an unfinished solitaire spread on it. Some good Samaritan had also brought Joker smokes - which were of little use while he was in his cell though, as he was most certainly not allowed a lighter. So in the end, that might have been not a gesture of mercy but a very subtle torment. 

Harleen could probably have visited earlier, just popping up at his door and talking to him. But she felt it’d be safer if she came up with a backup pretense first. So she scheduled a meeting with Doctor Leland and spun an elaborate white lie (she was getting better and better at that by the day; she also wasn’t exactly sure if she was happy with the change), going on about how glad she was to see her ex-patient reformed and obedient and genuinely _happy._

“I’m thinking even, since our communications seem to have had some emotional significance for 4479, it might’ve been a good idea to drop in by and tell him how proud I am of him now,” she mentioned, doing her best to let the remark sink like an unintended slip-up. 

“Oh, Harley. You’re the kindest,” Joan smiled at her. “So why don’t you do just that?”

“I, ah… well,” Harleen stuttered, carefully, “I just wouldn’t want to take up any of Jonathan’s time. I’m still feeling…”

_Funny._

“...somewhat uneasy at the thought of what a handful I’ve been for him.”

“I’m sure Jonathan wouldn’t mind,” Joan assured her, sweetly. “You’re young, after all. But if you don’t feel too confident to approach the subject with him yet, I’d be more than happy to sign you an MS pass.”

_That easy._

People, as Harleen had discovered as of late, were surprisingly cooperative about doing whatever you wanted them to do, as long as you seemed pretty, harmless, and put on a good show of looking up to them. All most of them needed was a hint at an _authority figure_ for them to blame their decisions upon later. And for those who weren’t most, a hint at being said authority figure themselves did the trick. Everyone had that little voice in them that jumped at the chance to play judge, jury and executioner. 

_As long as they were holding the gun, not J. Or anyone other of the downtrodden, for that matter._

Harleen couldn’t help but wonder glumly, whether her constant attempts at changing the world for the better with smarts, honesty and compassion had been pipe dreams from the very start - since a little _power_ was all that it took to send almost anyone down the spiral of blind self-righteousness (and the few specimen left were mostly just _boring_ in their naivete). _What is falling, that one should also push!_

She took up psychiatry because she genuinely wanted to heal damaged souls, to light a beacon for the vulnerable and broken - for those who were broken at the core of it all, at their very _psyche._ She wanted to _free_ them from any obliterating urge that clouded and warped their judgement, help them _decide for themselves_ again and not relinquish that to their demons. But from what she’d seen recently, everybody was broken - at least in here. And not in the usual _ha ha we’re all urban neurotics_ sense - seriously, deeply broken, to the point that they didn’t really function anymore. At least, not as people. 

_Props._

She was getting a glimpse now how J was probably seeing the world - crawling with marionettes with strings attached, strings weaved of rotten sinew. “Rule this”. “Rule that.” “Law this.” “Law that.” But what really jerked them around, read “Power”. “Greed.” “Arrogance.” Sheer, blatant cruelty. 

Why wasn’t anybody even _civil_ anymore, really? Or was she the only one who saw what Crane had really accomplished? She highly doubted that (to think otherwise would have been madness). So, there was only one answer left: nobody really cared. Nobody cared how many hurting souls were left to their own devices, or tortured into utter lunacy. 

No, no, she scolded herself at once. Going down that line of thought was not going to get her anywhere. She was here to help Arthur _._ To clean up the mess she had inadvertently contributed to, and that was all. Not to be sworn into some perpetual revolution. Not all people were awful. 

_Arthur_ himself wasn't awful.

So she thanked Joan with the sweetest of smiles for the pass, and made off to maximum security wing that instant.

It was high time for another heart-to-heart. 

Upon peering into the bull's eye, she found Joker sitting on the floor, legs crossed at the ankles, his head thrown back and resting against the cot, long brown tresses with the faintest residual touch of green falling over his angled face. Harleen glanced him over and, from the set of his jaw and the flickering glint of his pale-green eyes, concluded that Crane's medication has indeed worn off. Nevertheless, Joker stayed silent. 

Just as she thought of saying something first, because the whole scene was honestly turning awkward, he licked his dry, pale lips and spoke.

"Hello, Harleykins."

"Hello, Joker."

" _Please._ It's just J to you."

"I… uh. Call me Harley then," she added helplessly. "Everyone does."

"Harrrley," he purred. "Harrrrrley Quinnnzell… Lose a few letters, and you get a harlequin."

"Like in commedia dell'arte. I know."

"I, personally," he tilted his head, "prefer harlequinades. You know, those English things, where the Clown and the Harlequin would perform together. You did some good art," he remarked, " _back then"._

"So… you do remember."

"Remembering is a tricky thing with me, Harleykins. Me, I wouldn't know the truth if it stuck me in its tooth. How would I? But what's important, it's that it didn't really mean a thing if I did remember or not, not until _you_ mentioned it. Proved it real. Proved _yourself_ to be real, to yourself," he pointed a finger at her, "first and foremost. But, with all honesty," he added, baring his teeth - surprisingly long and sharp at that, despite the obvious lack of proper dental care and years of nicotine abuse, "I admit I've been getting _restless._ You took your time to deliver the punchline, didn't you?"

"I…"

He motioned her into silence. 

"It's alright, Harls," he told her, before letting out a warm, satisfied chuckle. "I'm not mad at you. Besides… You're a natural, you know that? With you, saying what you said just when you actually said it… Let's put it like this - it gave me a _joker_ up my sleeve, one that your dear friend Jonny Crane there would never suspect I have". 

"I've told you. He's not my friend." 

"Uh-oh. My bad. But pray tell me, Doctor Quinzel, who _are_ your friends then? Do you happen to have any?"

_Pammy. She used to have Pammy._

_But they hadn't talked in years._

The lack of answer was answer enough, apparently, and Joker doubled over with a fit of hysterical, throat-ripping laughter. 

"'m sorry," he muttered, waving his hand at her, "I've got a condition."

"We both know that you don't," Harleen snapped. "Not anymore."

"Ah-ha-ah…" he wheezed. "God, Doc, give a man a break, that's… that's just _too much!_ But seriously though," he added, getting a hold of himself again, "I still do. Sometimes. Not this time. In this particular case, guilty."

"So what's so funny about me not having any friends, huh?" she retorted, hating herself for sounding so childish. 

"Well, for instance," he threw his head back again and shot her an unusually solemn glance from under the eyelashes, "the fact that you've made yourself one. Just on the wrong side of the looney bin."

She couldn't help but giggle. 

"That was a decidedly unprofessional act, but, I suppose, yeah."

"Aww, come on, HarrrlAY," he purred, and pouted comically. "Don't go all professional on me. Although gotta say, your little trick or treat back there did me good. Bought me enough time to remember how to _not_ take my meds in the first place. So thank you, Doctor, I'm feeling much better now that I'm off them."

"I'm glad to see you feel better," Harleen said sincerely. "But seriously, after I get Crane fired, you'll still have to take some - your previous ones, I mean."

"We'll see, Harls. I prefer my relationship with meds to be on and off. But maybe I could trust your prescriptions. Who knows."

"I won't let you come to harm," she blurted. "Trust me."

"Of course you wouldn't. I know.”

An uneasy, yet weirdly heartwarming silence fell between them. At last, Harleen managed to shake herself from it first. 

"Okay. Got to go. You want anything, you tell Eddie. And… here."

She bent down and slipped a cigarette lighter into the food tray slit, before turning away and leaving. She had already walked a few steps down the corridor, when she heard a fingernail tap on plexiglass. 

Joker was leaning against the door. 

"Thanks for the lighter," he said, and there was something in his eyes... Hurt? Vulnerability? Longing? But in a moment, that weird impression was gone.

"And, by the way," he cracked a slow, deliberate smile, "whatever you do, you're not getting Crane fired. Because I am getting him _killed."_


	8. Truth be told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley spends more time with Mr. J and gets some things off her chest. Arthur appreciates. 
> 
> Next: Harley reconnects with Pammy. Arthur entertains himself alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to update less often but in longer chapters, hope that's alright with you, dear readers! And, as slow burn as it is, there are some hints of where the things are going (Harley, do you really think it's okay to spill it all to a scheming homicidal maniac with a well-known penchant for obsessions? Oh, Harley...)
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this story so far :3

That was just a relapse, Harleen reasoned. True, she couldn’t do much in current circumstances to actually influence the state of Joker’s mind - smuggling him actual antipsychotics was bound to raise Crane’s suspicions once the effect would become visible. Besides, without full control over his physiological data, she wouldn’t be able to track how his system dealt with the medication. So it was little wonder that the man was considering… _things_ again, having been denied proper psychiatric treatment. 

From there, she reckoned, things could have gone two ways. 

One way was that Harleen did what she was actually supposed to do. She’d go to Joan, tell her of their one-on-one with Joker, raise the alarm. Jonathan would be aware that his key patient was not only very lucid, but also holding a considerable grudge against him. He’d most likely resign from treating Joker out of sheer self-preservation, but even if he wouldn’t, his ego being as big as it was, Harleen would suggest putting him off the case herself. After a fail so spectacular that it almost surpassed her own, Jonathan was bound to step down. So he’d be alive and well and out of the way, and Harleen would be back into good graces with the board. She was fairly sure that Joker, or Eddie for that matter, wouldn’t rat on her - they’d go down along with her in that case. And even if they did, nobody would believe them. 

Perfect. 

Except what would happen to Joker in this scenario. 

_He’d be punished._

He’d go to Hugo Strange, and be _punished._

As much as she considered Crane’s methods to be inhumane and unacceptable, Harleen knew well by now that Strange was capable of worse. Where Crane’s signature move was experimental psychopharmacology, of which she had happened to learn enough while being his intern to be able to deduce a passable antagonist, there would be no pharmaceutical counterweight to ECT. Or lobotomy.

As much as she agreed that Joker needed help and that running around in scary clown makeup and blowing up things at will wasn’t exactly the healthiest pastime, she’d grown… accustomed? _Attached_ to her patient? Things, she realized dimly, had become personal enough that she well knew she couldn’t bear seeing his smarts and morbid charm and unyielding bravery torn away from him and rendered into… _that._ Whatever Crane made to surface. The man was so _alive,_ so sparkling with life and color and fierce, primordial force, that eyes almost watered to watch him. And the vulnerable, caring, hurting part of him that Harleen had seen so clearly, the swimming eyes behind the smile of blood, was also alive - and also there, in the man in red.

Not in the obedient, mutilated creature they proclaimed to be his _normal self._

Nothing was normal about taking that much deliberate pain and then saying thanks. 

Nothing was normal about how he’d lived his life before Joker. 

Therefore, route one was not an option. She’d failed her patient once, and her current predicament was, in fact, her own doing. She wouldn’t fail him again by sentencing him to Strange’s dungeon. She’d made a promise, had she not? 

So, she was taking route two.

She took up the night shifts, under the pretense of proving herself etc., etc., and on Jonathan’s days off she would go down to Joker’s cell and give him therapy. Talk therapy was better than nothing, right? At least, that she could do. 

To her contentment, she saw that it seemed to be working, too. Less nervous ticks, his usual morbid jokes sounding more like jokes and less like _plans,_ no cat and mouse games anymore, not a single laughing fit; and whenever he talked to her, he seemed warm, well-spoken and genuinely invested. These sessions, not bound by any protocol and not dissected afterwards by any supervisor, were somehow a lot more effective that those that they used to have under the all-seeing eye of the camera. Looked like the sense of security and privacy, Harleen considered, was very important to him. 

Of course, there was a camera in his cell, too. But firstly, nobody watched them live at night, Aaron Cash the head of Arkham security obviously had better things to do. And secondly, there was a blind spot in the corner, at the end of the bed. She’d sit on the floor tailor-fashion while Joker was resting on the cot to dull the vigilance of any occasional spectator, or he would join her sometimes, and they would talk. They would also share a cup of the despicable Arkham coffee and a cafeteria pudding that Harleen would smuggle in. God knew, the man could use some food. 

She wasn’t used to seeing him unrestrained: no straitjacket, no handcuffs, no shackles, and the grace of his movements, whether slow and deliberate, like a dance underwater, or sudden and lightning-fast, stunned her. He seemed to be constantly in control of his body, whether he was lying with his hands behind his head, or sauntering up and down the cell, or ashing his trademark cigarette. He would turn like in a waltz, bend down like in a tango, and even when he was standing still, his body almost sizzled with bottled-up movement and energy. His sharp features with a Roman nose and those very big, very intense green eyes looked like something that could come from under a Renaissance chisel, and Harleen couldn’t but marvel when he would forget himself and inspiration would illuminate his face with invisible fire. 

She knew she should have been afraid to be there, so close to him, at his complete mercy. She wasn’t. She knew there was a method to his madness. Comedy was subjective, but inescapably, subjectivity meant judgement. She had wronged him, but she lived. He’d forgiven her. Or maybe, he saw her as a necessary part of his act - either way, if he really wanted to kill her, he already would’ve. And even if there was, all things considered, a chance he would change his mind, Harleen was determined to pull this brilliant, gifted man from the abyss of his pain, and would go to greatest lengths to complete her mission. So she made herself comfortable, and watched, and asked, and listened.

And answered as well. 

She didn’t drop the subject, though.

“You’ve never told me,” she noted as they were sharing a curd pudding that Harleen, for a change, had baked herself, “why you killed your therapists.”

“What reason did I have not to?” he shrugged. “Or is it really a question about why I didn’t kill you? Or Strange? Or Leland?” 

“Both,” she admitted. 

“Aw, I couldn’t have hurt my HarrrlAY,” he taunted. “Well, _technically,_ I could, but... Doesn’t matter,” he stopped himself abruptly, “I just didn’t feel like it, that’s it. Except that one day, but… no hard feelings, Harls? If that makes you feel better, I’m really glad now that I didn’t, cross my heart and hope to die. That makes you. Then, Strange and Leland are _killing bores_ obsessed with self-preservation. I could’ve managed if I really put some effort in it, but the gag just wasn’t worth it. The other two, well, they looked at me _funny._ You know. Like a specimen to dissect.”

“You said two. But it’s three doctors you’ve killed.”

“Ah. My very first shrink. Well... I _told_ her she wouldn’t get it. But the thing is, she wasn’t even trying.”

“Am I?” she asked quietly. “Do I get it?”

He shot her a long, serious glance.

“Not yet,” he said softly. “But yes, you’re trying. And trust me, one day you will.”

  
  
“Tell me about that no friends thing of yours,” he offered in one of their next sessions. 

“Well…” 

“C’mon, Harley. You’re sweet. You’re kind, you’re considerate, you really care about people. Hell, I guess if you graduated earlier and took your internship in the Social Services department, I wouldn’t even have made it to the show,” she felt her cheeks blush at these words of his. “So how did it come to be that someone like you has no friends? People should be _buzzing_ to get your attention!”

“That’s very nice of you, Mr. J,” she sighed. “But you must remember that a patient’s attachment to their therapist is a thing that generally should be expected, and since I’m the only person you talk to, you might be giving me more credit than you should. I’m not all that mercy incarnate, believe me.”

“I never said you were, and I never said it was a bad thing that you weren’t. But still, it’s not like your head’s been split open or you have them laughing fits.”

“I’ve never had it as bad as you did, Mr. J,” she confessed, drawing up her knees and hugging them. She was starting to be a bit unsure whether her usual choiсe of a black or gray pencil skirt, a red or blue blouse and a lab coat was really that practical. “I just… I guess I was never the people person, really. Or maybe, I just didn’t have the time to mingle, I dunno.”

“Tell me again, what was that thing that you did? Gymnastics?”

“Yeah,” she was letting her accent slip a bit now. “At first, I’d go anywhere to spend less time at home. Y’know, my Dad, when he wound up in prison…”

“Oh?”

“Nah, nothing like that, Mistah J. Petty larceny, scams, that kinda shtick. Well, he went behind bars, and my Mom, she met that man, and… Let’s just say, I was happy I could stay away from ‘im in the gym and do my routines all day long. And then, I figured that this could get me into college. So I spend even more time training and touring, and I guess I came off like kinda arrogant and unwelcoming, so yeah… No friends. Not until Pammy.”

“And who was that Pammy girl?”

“Ah,” Harleen smiled, “she was the new kid in school in my graduate year. So, we kinda hit it off right from the start, and were pretty much inseparable until our fourth year in the Gotham U. She took up ethnobotany, but we still had some classes together.”

“What happened next? Classes stopped?”

“Not really. She just… she like really disapproved of my life,” Harleen said, quietly. “Of my career choices. Of my then-boyfriend, Guy, pretty much. She used to say I was living somebody else’s life, not my own, that I should have become a performer, like I once wanted to, or continue working on my motorcycle stunts…”

“You did stunts?”

“Yup. On bikes. I loved bikes, just as Pam loved her _Save the Earth_ rallies,” she giggled, “actually, I’d usually give her a lift to and fro. Not the machines themselves, but, you know…” she gestured vaguely. “The freedom. But when I told Pammy on the phone that Guy had proposed and I’d accepted, she kinda snapped. She said that she couldn’t bear to witness me bury myself alive. And that she didn’t really feel anymore that I was the Harley Quinzel she used to know. She told me to call when the real Harley’s back, and then she hung up on me and had been giving me the silent treatment till she left for her fieldwork in Colombia. And… we haven’t talked since.”

“Now, that must have been rough. But what was that bad about that Guy guy, anyway?”

“I guess… nothing. And everything. Oh, by the way,” she looked at him coyly, “you were the reason we broke up, Mr. J.”

“Oh. Did I also start the Apocalypse, by any chance?” he pouted, but then gave in to laughter. “Okay, fine, now that’s intriguing. Spill the beans.”

“Well then. The Night of Clowns...” she licked her lips. “He was on the three Wayne guys’ side. We used to fight about that. A lot. The night I came home, with blood on my lips, he knew what happened. He knew where I’d been. So… words were said. Choices were made. I showed him the door, he went through that door. That was it.”

He fell silent for a while.

“Do you regret that?” he asked at last. 

She gave it a thought. 

“No,” she said finally. “Not in the slightest. Pam was right. I’ve been suffocating. So, I guess everything worked out for good.”

“And… anyone else since Guy?”

“No. Not one person. It… it just didn’t feel right, you know.”

He watched her with a weird expression on his face - half pained, half amused, the one that Harleen had never seen before. 

“Um.. Mr. J?”

_“What.”_

“Just… thanks for hearing me out, alright? I shouldn’t have hijacked our session, but… it was nice to talk about it once in a while. I haven’t, really. Not for a long time.”

“Ah, nevermind,” he smiled, after having seemingly processed something. “Always a pleasure, Harls.”

  
  


On her day off, Harleen gave in to the sudden urge (well, actually, not _that_ sudden, given what Joker and she had been talking about) and went to the library to dig up Pammy. The search results turned out to be suprizing. “Dr. Pamela Isley,” the most recent issue of _Gotham Academicals_ read, “a reknown scholar in ethnobotany and medical anthropology who relocated to her hometown of Gotham last year, will be giving a series of public talks on fieldwork in extreme conditions.” A tall, ginger woman with more than a hint of the familiar mischevous twinkle in her eye, clad in cargo pants and a green flannel shirt, was smiling at her from the photo accompanying the announcement. Pammy’s next lecture was scheduled for the upcoming Tuesday, Gotham U. 

Dropping by Joker’s cell on Saturday to resupply him with lighters (the man could positively start coughing his lungs up any moment now, that much of a chain smoker he was), Harleen mentioned the ad to him. To her surprise, he almost jumped at her words and said that the news was fantastic.

“You want to do something? You go and do just that,” he told her. “Go steal that show. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“You sure, Mr. J?” she frowned. “It’s just… It would be Crane’s day in.” 

“Don’t you worry, Harleykins. Go talk to the plant lady. I’ll entertain myself alright.”


	9. Hell broke luce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur goes on the telly.
> 
> Next: the grand finale of Arthur's show. Harley and Arthur meet again sooner than she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that's some action! I imagine that, being a survivor of child abuse, Arthur would have a particularly short temper for pedophiles. Aaand if anyone thinks that it's a giant hommage to Joker's Asylum... you're right!
> 
> Also Harley is deliberately called Harley from here on, as this is how she finally comes to call herself again. She's clearly going for some pivotal moment, I think.

The day of her supposed meeting with Pammy Harleen gave her wardrobe a thorough revision and found the results… unsatisfactory. Said wardrobe consisted of pencil skirts (two black, one gray), matching jackets, slacks (brown pair, gray pair), office shirts (two red, one blue), one black cocktail dress for special occasions (that was, Arkham fundraisers) and a sweatsuit and a leotard - sometimes she still happened to be in a mood for keeping her gymnastics and acrobatics skills not as rusty as they could be. This all made a perfect costumery for someone who was playing the part of a professional, detached doctor, somewhat straight-laced and aloof, but civil nonetheless. Crane's mannerisms may have rubbed off her somehow, she reckoned. The clothes screamed an orderly respectable life well-planned for years ahead, maybe the tiniest bit lonely, but hey, dedicated career-oriented women had to make a _choice._ This was a good life, sealed away safely from all vulnerability and suddenness, from all the chaotic impulses, unbridled emotions and adrenaline rushes she knew _Harley Quinzel_ was prone to. No, Harley Quinzel wouldn't have approved of these clothes - the Harley Quinzel who first dreamed of being a stunt person or an acrobatics performer, and then of _healing_ people; the Harley Quinzel that was an adventurer, a daydreamer and a hopeless believer in a better world and the infamous One True Love, not in working under Crane and Strange, who broke patients to dust instead of curing them, and marrying Guy because she didn't love anyone anyway and was afraid to die alone. No, these clothes were props for the life of _Harleen_ _-_ who was going to live said life as long as she saw fit. Afterwards, she was going to die, presumably by a deliberate overdose on sleeping pills. She really thought hers was a good life. She just didn't think anything in this life mattered. 

Not until Arthur Fleck and her crusade to help him. 

Somehow, _Harleen's costumery_ felt wrong. 

“Screw this,” she said decisively before pulling on her sweatsuit and heading to the door. 

Some major _redesign_ was long due. 

Because of the need to buy herself some new clothes and then return home to change, Harley wound up late for the good two-thirds of Pammy’s lecture. She considered coming in, but then decided that this would be impolite, so she waited in the hall by the doors until the event would be over. In her new dirty blue jeans and an Alice Cooper T-shirt, the one with him in his iconic jester makeup, she looked almost like a student, and when the doors burst open and the chattering crowd spilled out, nobody gave her much attention as she struggled across the current to get to the lectern - where Pammy, in a safari-themed suit, was signing books for the more devout of the audience. 

Harley too had one bought on her way to the university. 

“So, how do I sign it?” Pammy asked, not raising her glance from the front page when Harley handed it to her. 

“Hmm… “For Harley” would be enough, I guess,” Harley smiled, and Pammy jerked up her head incredulously.

“ _Harls?_ Is that really you?”

Harley was dreading for that moment to happen. She prepared herself for Pam turning her down or maybe pretending that they didn’t even know each other; but what she did not expect was that the esteemed Dr. Isley would let out a shrill girly squeak and then give her the tightest hug. 

“Oh Harls, oh Harls, oh Harls, I’m so happy to see you! Oh my God, oh my God! You’re… you haven’t changed a bit!”

“You neither,” Harley lied. In fact, Pammy did change - she’d changed a lot. Instead of the harsh, introverted girl that she used to be, the woman standing in front of Harley was radiating warmth and charm. But Harley was well-versed in reading people, and she didn’t buy it. Not yet. 

“Why didn’t you find me earlier? I’ve been back to Gotham for _nine months!”_

“I didn’t know! Why didn’t _you_ find me?”

“I… I…” and, to Harley’s shock, something in Pam’s perfectly jovial porcelain mask of a face shifted, giving way to a raw, human emotion. “I thought you were mad at me,” she admitted. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me. I acted like a total coldhearted bitch back then, and… oh _Harls,_ I missed you so!” 

“So did I, Red,” Harley smiled, feeling the unwanted tears well up. 

“Did you?..” Pam trailed off, but Harley knew what the question was about. 

“No. I didn’t marry Guy,” she giggled. “And before you start beating yourself up for this, that was my own decision based on... Eh. Looks like we’ve got a _ton_ of catching-up to do.”

“Coffee!” Pam proclaimed. “And I don’t take no for an answer.”

“That’s so you,” Harley smirked. “Never intended to turn you down on this, though.”

  
  


They ended up in a small but neat diner not far from the university. The place was sci-fi themed, with silvery and streamlined _everything,_ and random colorful light bulbs (Harley doubted any of them was even functional) screwed onto every possible surface. _Popcorn_ was playing on repeat (or maybe, those were several synthpop tunes, all of which sounded almost identical to _Popcorn_ ), and some of the patrons sported glued-on Vulcan ears.

Well, actually, the Vulcan ears were cute. 

“Now,” said Pammy upon rendering her travels with the research party of one Dr. Woodroe (Harley suspected there might have been something more to it here, but kept her observations to herself), including a particularly nasty run-in with the FARC, “tell me what’s new in the looney bin. You look…” she glanced her over, “different.”

“Weren’t you the one that just said I didn’t change?” Harleen grinned, chewing on another piece of her pancake. 

“I mean, you _hated_ that. You were so disappointed when you ended up with Crane. But look at you! Hey, hey,” Pammy hurried, “I’m not saying it as a bad thing. You look excited. Like, you really _believe_ in any of it again.”

“Hmm,” Harley said, “suppose I do. I’ve been thinking of quitting, to tell you the truth, one only can fight the tide for so long. But I guess a patient made a difference.”

“C’mon. I refuse to believe you’ve been no use for four years straight.”

“I hope I haven’t. But that person is…special.”

“Ooh! Tell me, girl,” Pammy grinned, sipping on her refilled coffee. “Is it a Byronic hero with a penchant for morbid charm?”

“Kind of,” she laughed mildly. “I mean, he’s done some really _problematic_ things, some would go as far as to call him a monster, but what he is really is a gentle, troubled man who’s been terribly deprived of human connection, understanding and proper medical care for all his life. I’m working to bring out that side of him, to help him come at peace with his need for affection and his vulnerability, so that he wouldn’t need to resort to violence as his primary defense mechanism. Actually, Crane goofed up on him. Big time. But what I do, looks like it’s working.”

“So this is it? Ambition? Sticking it up to Crane?”

“No. No way. It’s just… he’s so smart, so _talented_ and in so much pain. I just really want to help him. And I’m so happy that I’m starting to get somewhere.”

Pammy open her mouth to answer something, but was interruped with an “Oi! Crank it up!” from the neighboring table. The waitress did volume the TV over the counter up; and everyone’s eyes were now glued to the screen and the wheyfaced TV host - a plump grey-haired man in a sparkly blue vest.

“We interrupt our live air for a special transmission,” the man read, voice slightly trembling. “We have been informed by a… credible source,” he shot a quick glance off-screen and swallowed, clearly panicking, before returning to his paper, “that Gotham’s very special - wait, are you _serious?_ oh, sorry, sorry, don’t, please don’t! - stand-up comedian going by the name of Joker has vacated Arkham Asylum with the help of his _trusted troupe_ and a _lighter,_ and is currently in our studio. Camera! Larry! Larry, for fuck’s sake, point the camera at him before they…”

The camera angle made a swift swirl. And there he was - in his flawless, garish face paint, the suit so bright red and dark golden and emerald green that it almost hurt to look, a thin, razor-sharp grin plastered onto crimson lips, eyes burning with rage and ecstasy and swelling with tears.

“Hiya, Gotham. Long time no see.”

  
  


The set was clearly that of some quiz show, with flashy decorations of stars and dollar signs. Three guests - a gaunt woman with long and unkempt dirty blonde hair adorned with beads; a pale man in his early 30s in a suit a tad too neat and tidy; and a sturdy guy in a flannel shirt - stood frozen with fear at their stands in front of a big screen that read "Who Wants a Million Dollars". The crowd sat gaping with awe and terror; several people in clown masks, both flanking them and in between them, were holding them at gunpoint. 

Joker strolled, unruffled, past the stands and the screen, the camera following him close. "Thank you, Paul," he told the petrified host amiably, "you did a great job, but I think I'll take it from here."

"That freak," Pammy muttered. Harley shot her a glance. _Maybe, just maybe,_ she thought, _this whole reunion was not such a great idea._

"What, you still here?" Joker raised an eyebrow at the host. "Skedaddle."

The host, nearly tripping over his feet, did just that. 

"Now, back to business," Joker announced cheerfully. "Well, well, well, what have we here? "Who Wants a Million Dollars?" I guess nobody, since I've arrived! Ha ha ha!"

The crowd laughed forcefully, incited by the slight movement of gun barrels. 

"Frankly speaking, I'd rather crash a comedy show, for obvious reasons," Joker continued, "but since I last did, they don't do it LIVE anymore! Ha ha ha! But don't worry, my dear Gothamites, we'll just have to put on a little Ritz. Please welcome our very special guest Edward Nygma, who'll be hosting a very _enigmatic_ event for us tonight!"

The camera moved from Joker to the crowd again, closing in on Eddie Nashton, who rose from his seat and flashed the brightest smile before climbing down to the spotlight. He wore a dark green tailored suit over a black T-shirt that read "WTF".

"For those who may feel concerned about the general _mental health_ climate 'round here, Eddie's been certified sane no less than a week ago and is a valuable member of the community," Joker remarked, as Nashton made himself comfortable behind the host's stand. "This true, Eddie? Are you valuable?"

"Pretty much," Eddie grinned. 

"Good to know. So I guess that means no killing you today," Joker said jovially. "Unlike you, my fellow Gothamites!" he made an elaborate bow to the horrified contestants. "Our "Riddles with Eddie" show here, it's got some pretty strict rules: you make a mistake, you die! But don't let this dishearten you, isn't it just what your life is like? And to even the chances a little, I'm gonna take a place behind the stand just as you did! Only that means that someone must vacate a spot for me. Hmm… Hmm…" he walked up and down past the stands, before turning around in one swift, sudden motion and snapping his fingers at the man in a suit. "You! What's your name? C'mon, pal, we haven't got all night!"

"J… Jervis. Jervis Tetch," the man stuttered. 

"And a little bird told me behind the curtains, that you're a schoolteacher?"

"I… I am," Tetch's face was turning a weird shade of crimson. He clearly heard menace behind these words. 

"I've had Eddie peek into your briefcase, you know. Not that, silly, the one you keep at home! With your _personal_ _tabs_ on pupils. Naughty, naughty! You know what? I think you're _awful_ , Jervis. I think our show could do much better without your company here."

At that, Joker snatched a gun from under his jacket, and shot Tetch right between the eyes. The audience screamed, but was quickly silenced. 

"There," Joker announced merrily after the screams were subdued, "back to PG-13."

He took his place behind the stand, making a little dance of stepping gracefully over the still-twitching body, and shot Nashton a look of playful anticipation. 

"Shall we?"

"Ahem," Eddie leaned on his stand in a very smug manner. "The first question goes to you, then. So, tell me, Joker, will there be an Oscar speech now that you're back on screen again? Do you want to thank your mother for your spectacular career?"

"Ah, nay, Eddie. That's old," Joker giggled. 

"Your choice. So riddle me this. I have a name that's not mine, and no one cares about me in their prime. People cry at my sight, and lie by me all day and night. What am I?”

“Easy. It’s a tombstone. Which reminds me of a talk I had with my good friend Harleykins there. Hey Harls, I’m on the telly!” he waved his fingers at the camera. 

Harley stilled. 

“No shit,” Pammy gasped. 

“Remember what I told you? About a dead man and a force of nature?” his eyes were eager, his smile convulsive, voice solemn almost. “Well let me tell you, Harls: _let the dead bury the dead._ Go on, Ed.”

“W-what does he mean?” Pammy stuttered. “What is this sick fuck trying to say?”

“I have no idea,” Harley hissed under her breath.

She lied.

She knew exactly what he was trying to say. 

_Let the dead bury the dead._ Arthur Fleck was dead, and only Joker remained, only the force of nature. And that, she knew, was his delusion. He was one and the same, Arthur Fleck and Joker, but to invoke that, she’d have to cross to the other side herself, to walk through that valley in the shadow of death to reach him. 

He’d only believe her if she’d _get it._


	10. Better call Ed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gives social commentary. Harley makes a promise. 
> 
> Next: someone other than Ed picks the phone. Pam's got unwanted guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers, I can't say enough how grateful I am for your kudos and comments and awesome feedback! <3 You're my inspiration here! 
> 
> Also, more action (and more Joker's Asylum and Mad Love shoutouts) in this chapter. Does Harley know what she's getting herself into? I don't really think so, but she's taken too many steps down this path by now to stop, and now there's a mission impossible on her hands that will likely ruin her life! And poor Pammy, who's being dragged down the rabbit's hole as well. But we can't let them do this to Arthur, can we?

On Gotham's screens, the show went on. 

Joker was now addressing the woman, who was trembling and sobbing uncontrollably. 

"Now, now," he cooed, "no need to be so upset. I won't be stealing the spotlight from you anymore! Pinky promise. Tell us, what is your name, dear?"

"Sh… Sheila," the woman managed. "Sheila Daniels. Oh God, I don't want to die, I don't want to die…"

"Sorry to break it to you like that, but… we all will," Joker commented sympathetically. "Also, the world's unfair, and Santa Claus isn't real."

"Now that was mean, Mr. J," Eddie chirped in. "We are a family show, after all. The kids might be watching."

Joker shot him a venomous glance. _No unsolicited punchlines on my watch,_ it read clearly. Eddie paled a little. 

"Uh… Oh. I'd better get to the point. Riddle me this, Sheila - I’m going easy on you, mind you. I move very slowly at an imperceptible rate, although I take my time, I am never late. I accompany life, and survive past demise, I am viewed with esteem in many women's eyes. What am I?” 

But, as was obvious to Harley, Sheila was too horrified to register what Eddie was saying. 

“Oh please, Mister Joker, please, I want to live, I want to live…”

“Excuse me?” Joker flinched, and made an exaggerated show of clutching at his heart, as if Sheila had uttered something truly shocking. “What am I hearing here? Are you saying you want to live?”

“Yes! Yes!” the woman nodded frantically, still in tears, while a smile of tentative hope was starting to blossom on her lips.

“But,” Joker frowned, as if processing an impossible dilemma, “didn’t you want a million dollars? I mean, that’s what the television says,” he gestured at the screen behind his back. “You wanted a million dollars, that’s why you came here, and all of a sudden you don’t want that and want to live instead! That’s… inconsistency, toots. But on the other hand,” he shot her a wide grin and winked, “who’d want a million dollars anyway? Come on, Sheila, that’s a question. Who wants a million dollars?”

“I… I dunno. Everyone?” she stuttered. “Who _doesn’t_ want a million dollars?”

“Me,” Joker said simply. “I, for instance, do not. See, that’s the problem with you, people. You’re all about money. Or power. Or fame… well, I guess, I’m sort of with you on that one, ha-ha, but anyways. You do slapstick comedy and you presume that everyone does it as well, but some of us here do _word puns._ Some ache for another kind of things, the ones that you can neither buy nor sell, only conquer. The ones that are bigger then you and your temporary urges that will, as I’ve already mentioned, inescapably go six feet under. And those bigger things? They are definitely not money. I pity you,” he continued, “for thinking that money is bigger than yourself. But I don’t blame you. You’ve been _trained_ so, Sheila, you’re an animal in this circus. You jump and you flop to escape the whip, and they give you no break to take a look around and see that the electric fence is down and the tamer’s hands are trembling. I wonder, what do they whip you with, exactly, what kind of predicament did they stage to put you into? Losing your job? Losing your home? Them taking your kids away? Anything, really, as long as it works and lulls you away from giving them what they deserve _._ But I see you’ve had a priorities check here, and I’m really pleased with myself that I made you want to _live._ Unfortunately,” he added mildly, sympathetically almost, “that was not the correct answer.”

He took out another gun and aimed at Sheila’s head, as the woman, weeping, collapsed to her knees. 

“Pow-pow,” he said calmly and pulled the trigger. 

And a cloud of confetti shot out. 

“Is it… is it…” she stammered, but Joker had apparently lost any interest in her after he fired the shot, so Sheila, still weeping, made it on her hands and knees towards where the crowd were seated. 

Nobody stopped her. 

“The answer was hair, by the way,” Eddie cut in. “Human hair. It is a common misconception that it continues to grow after the person is dead, albeit I have no doubt that some of our viewers know that this is just an illusion provided by the shrinking of skin in the process of decay. So, let’s say goodbye to Sheila - bye Sheila! - and move on to Melvin White! Hi Melvin.”

“Say “Hi Eddie,” Joker prompted.

“H-Hi Eddie,” Melvin echoed obediently, but then a dangerous fire flickered in his eye, he grabbed the stand by both hands with such force that his knuckles went white, and growled, “and fuck you, Eddie. Fuck you too, Joker. Fuck all of you! And fuck your sick pranks. Kill me all you want, but I'm not playing along.” 

“Ooh,” Joker purred, “looks like we’ve got us a rebel here! I _like_ that. And as everyone knows, I’m open to critique! Pray tell me, Melvin, what is that you don’t like about our little show here? How come that me showering the lady with confetti is sick, and _the society_ making her toil 24/7 for next to nothing isn’t?”

“I came here for a purpose,” the man snarled through gritted teeth. “That was my chance of a lifetime. And you just had to ruin it. You’re saying you’re all for the people, you painted prick, but right here, right now, I’m the people, and you’ve just ruined my life!”

“Now that’s a development,” Joker commented. “I haven’t even shot you yet!”

“I _needed_ that fucking million. I really fucking needed it!”

“Ah, is that what it’s all about?” Joker shrugged. “I told you people, I don’t want it. You answer the riddle, you live, the million is yours for grabs. Go take it for all I care. But tell me, Melvin, what is that you need it so desperately for?”

“Wayne Industries _,”_ Melvin grunted. “They want a new development site in place of my house. City interests, they say. They’ve cut the communications already, and cut the road. I’ve lost the court case, and they went down on the compensation. I need that money to move.”

“Or,” Joker added pleasantly, “you need a tank or something. I’d say you need a gun, but you most likely _have_ a gun, don’t you, Melvin? It’s just not enough. Now what you really need is a big kaboom to scare the Big Bad Wolf away from your little straw house, if you ask me, because don’t you even _think_ they won’t come for you again at your next place. They are,” he hissed, “ _insatiable,_ and you know that. And what do you say, Melvin, if I give you a tank? Will you still be running away and paying ransoms? Or will you stand your ground for once?”

Melvin swallowed and said nothing. 

“Shoot it, Ed.”

“Riddle me this, Melvin. Sometimes I shine, sometimes I’m dull, sometimes I am big, and sometimes I am small. I can be pointy, I can be curved, and don’t ask me questions because even though I’m sharp, I’m not smart enough to answer you. What am I?”

“A knife,” Melvin said quietly. “The answer is a knife.”

“That’s right,” Eddie said. “But remember, I’ve been going easy on all of you idiots, because J here insisted on fair play,” he added. 

“The million, by the way, is just behind the curtains, go stuff your face. And that concludes our evening show,” Joker chirped cheerfully. “But before we part for now, dear Gothamites, there is some backstage footage I’d love to show you! Larry, was it? Make it go on the screen, Larry.”

And behind Joker’s back, and the motionless Melvin, a scene indeed flared up.

It was a big room full of monitors - apparently, where the crew of the show, aside of Paul, had been sitting. And said crew were panicking. Vocally.

_“Oh my God, it’s the Joker!”_

_“We have to get out! Get out of here!”_

_“Cut it, Sam, he’s not here yet! But the clowns are most likely just behind the doors, so stay put where you are!”_

_“But the crowd! And the contestants! They’re in there with him!”_

_“They’ve signed the fucking agreement! He can cut them to bits for fuck’s sake, nobody will sue us! It’s safe for us, so stay fucking put!”_

_“You’re out of your mind, Don, I’m cutting the transmission!”_

_“No! Wait!”_

_“What the hell, Janice?”_

_“It’s… it’s the board. The board have called. They say the ratings are soaring. We can’t cut the transmission, not now, it’s the best viewing rate we’ve had since March!”_

_“But the people… He’s going to kill ‘em! He said so! We can’t put that on air!”_

_“We can and will, Sam! Bosses’ orders!”_

_“Quit fucking whining over those losers, Sam, and do your job!”_

“And now I’m asking you, Gotham, how come that I, a simple well-intentioned comedian, am, according to your elders, butchering you with a reign of terror - while these people, ready to sacrifice you to me, or to any other social evil for that matter, are not? Ooh, here’s a shocker - maybe the _television_ ’ _s_ lying to you? Think of it in your spare time, Gotham! And always remember - that’s life!” 

The TV beeped, and the next thing they saw was white noise.

“I need to get to work,” Harley breathed out. “ _Now.”_

  
  
She made it just in time, Pam in tow, to run into a very agitated Commissioner Gordon pacing up and down the lobby and barking orders into a police radio. A dozen officers were standing a bit away from him, nervously, but - to Harley’s surprise - when she ran into the lobby, their faces brightened.

“There she is!” a young, dark-haired woman exclaimed, whose patch read “R. MONTOYA”. Gordon whipped around that instant and honestly, Harley didn’t think that anyone had ever looked that happy to see her. 

“Doctor Quinzel!” he said, hurrying up to her. “Thank goodness! You weren’t at work, and you weren’t at your apartment, so…”

“I’m fine,” Harley assured him, “I took a day off and went out with a friend, Dr. Isley here.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Pam said between her teeth in a manner that clearly indicated that she wasn’t. 

“Likewise, Dr. Isley. Dr. Quinzel, we are all immensely relieved to see that you are alive and well. But I’m afraid, we will have to ask you some questions.”

“Yes, of course. But what made you think I might _not_ be alive and well?”

“You were Joker’s therapist,” Gordon said simply. “We were concerned about you since… what he did to Dr. Crane.”

“Crane?” she gasped. “Is Jonathan?.. Did he?..”

“No, no, he didn’t kill him. Not exactly. Apparently, Joker hadn’t been taking his medication for quite a while, which allowed him to build up an impressive stash of pills, all of which he then fed to Dr. Crane during his breakout. Dr. Crane is alive, he’s in Gotham General now. He’s just… unwell.”

“Unwell?”

“Screaming. They can’t really sedate him until they get the toxins out of his system, that would be too much. So he’s been… screaming. Ever since.”

“Oh,” Harley said. She felt for Jonathan, really, despite all that he put her - and Arthur - through. But some tiny part of her - or not even that tiny, maybe - relished in how Arthur’s revenge had been executed. Crane had been given a taste of his own medicine - _literally._ And Harley, if she were to be completely honest with herself, believed that he got what he deserved. 

“How did he get away?” she asked Gordon.

“That’s what we have been interested in, Dr. Quinzel. Someone’s been smuggling him _lighters,_ apparently. He spit a mouthful of gas from one on the orderly, then set the poor chap on fire with the other and got hold of his taser and gun. It was a mere technicality for him from there. Five dead that we attribute to Joker, seven to the inmates that he’d released on his way. On the outside, one Edward Nashton had been waiting for him in a getaway car, so it seems.” 

“ _Oh._ ”

“You don’t happen to know anything about it, do you?” Gordon shot her a sharp glance. _Remember,_ Harley told herself, _this man does care about things. And he is much smarter than he looks._

“How would I?” she rebutted, a picture of offended dignity. “As I’ve told you, I’ve been to my friend’s lecture, which she can confirm.”

“And I do,” Pammy said dryly. 

“And now, Comissioner, if you suspect me of _smuggling_ anything to my patient, that’s outrageous. I admit that I’ve been visiting him after hours, but I had a good reason to. I suspected that Dr. Crane’s treatment was ineffective, but Dr. Strange and Dr. Arkham could not be brought to listen to my suggestions of reason. Therefore, I couldn’t do anything besides after hours talk therapy, since any authority over Joker’s case was stripped from me. Well, look where that got them! My patient is out at large, God knows what else can happen…”

 _To him,_ that tiny voice in Harley’s head piped in. 

“You may have a point here, Dr. Quinzel,” Gordon said tiredly. “Although we’ve managed to apprehend him, at least. With some help from… concerned citizens. He’s on his way here now.”

It did not take long until an uncharacteristically disheveled Jeremiah Arkham marched in, with a gloomy Hugo Strange and a worried Joan Leland in tow, the commotion following in their steps with distant hysterical laughter growing louder by the minute. And then, flanked by a convoy of four SWAT officers, Joker himself was dragged in.

He was beaten black and blue, blood streaming from his nose, lips busted. He limped heavily, his right leg giving in under him every now and then, and by the way he cradled his left arm - and by the sickeningly _wrong_ angle of it - Harley knew at once that it was broken, and she could only imagine how painful it must have been for him to be handcuffed. Somebody must have given him a blow on the head, and a heavy one at that - as blood still trickled down his cheek from under his hair, and his eyes looked cloudy. And he laughed - choking on that shrill, throaty laughter, sobbing with it, throwing it up as one would their guts. He laughed and laughed. Upon noticing her in the crowd, he seemed to be almost able to subdue it for a moment; but then another laughing fit came over him, and back it was - gurgling, wrenching, ear-shredding. 

“What do you think you’re doing, can’t you see that his arm is broken?” Harley screamed, running after them. “And you’ve most likely given him a concussion while he’s a neurologic patient, for God’s sake!”

“We’re taking him to the infirmary, Ma’am,” one of the SWAT men said gruffly. “You can take it from there.”

“You bet I will!” Harley snapped. 

“I bet you won’t,” Dr. Arkham interjected. “You’ve done enough here, Dr. Quinzel. Your over-permissive attitude is what has led to this… PR disaster in the first place.”

“Is this what you call this, Dr. Arkham? PR disaster?” she was in no mood to play nice anymore. “Well, I think you ought to thank Dr. Crane for it in the first place, him and his experimental pharmaceuticals! I wonder though, how much did Elliot Inc. pay you to let him put underdeveloped medications to use - or did he just jump at the chance to get his hands on human test subjects? Not that it isn’t exactly an open secret around here!”

“Enough, Quinzel!” Arkham barked. “You’re fired. Joan, you deal with her papers tomorrow. Hugo,” he turned to Dr. Strange, “Pennyworth’s called. They want him _drooling,_ not calling Wayne Industries out on live TV. I want you to perform a lobotomy on him tomorrow morning.”

  
  
Harley waited in the parking lot until both Strange and Arkham took off home. Pam had insisted on walking her home, but Harley assured her that she had to talk to Dr. Leland.

Instead, she went out by the back door and had been lurking in the shadows for two hours. 

When the coast was finally clear, she circled the building and went in again.

“I’m sorry,” she told the guard, “I must have forgotten my keys back there. You know, with all the stress…”

“Okay, Dr. Quinzel,” the man said sympathetically. “Just so you know, I think it’s a shame Arkham fired you like this.”

“Well, I guess Joker’s no good news for anyone,” she said dully. 

“That he is, crazy bastard.”

She made a show of looking for her keys under every chair and table until the guard stopped paying attention to her, and then she slipped away quietly into the corridor and made her hasty way to the infirmary. 

Joker’s ward was easily discernible by an armed policeman posted at the door. _This should be easier,_ Harley thought - Gordon’s men were already escorting Joker away during her falling-out with Arkham, so they most likely didn’t know yet that she was fired and had no right to be here.

“I just want to check on him, that's all,” she told the officer. “He’s got surgery scheduled for 8 AM and I need to be sure he’ll survive the ECT. You can ask Comissioner Gordon if that’s okay, if you want.”

That was a gamble, but apparently, the officer was no more eager to call the comissioner at 1 AM than Harley herself. 

“Fine, Doc,” he sighed, after pondering on that for a moment. “Just be quick.”

“Oh, it will be just a minute,” Harley promised.

Joker, his arm in a plaster cast and head bandaged, was lying on the hospital bed, seemingly asleep. But when Harley approached him, his eyelashes shot up - and a frantic, piercing stare made her stop short.

“Harley,” he managed hoarsely.

“Shh,” she hushed, bending down to him. “It will be okay.”

“No, it won’t,” he choked, and a fit of soundless, gasping laughter shook his body from head to toe. “I’ve heard what they want to do to me. Harley… Harleykins… can I trust you with one small thing? Just one? The very last?”

“What… what do you want me to do, J?” 

“Kill me,” he whispered. “Please. Smother me. Or give me an overdose on something, or cut my throat, I don’t care. Whatever is safe for you. You cared, didn’t you? So don’t abandon me now. Don’t make me _survive_ that, Harls.”

He reached out his free hand - someone’s blood was still caked under his fingernails, so black against his pale skin - and took her own, bringing it to his cold, split lips. The kiss that followed - not really a kiss, just a timid, ghostly brush of his lips against her knuckles - sent an icy, deathly shiver through Harley’s body, as Joker closed his eyes, his face calm, sharp and collected, and probably the most sincere that she had ever seen him so far.

“I beg you,” he said softly. “Let me die while I’m still myself.”

She stood frozen, neither pulling her hand away, nor doing anything to prolong his touch. 

“You won’t die,” she croaked at last, in a voice harsh and alien. “Tell me how to contact Ed.”


	11. No rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley makes more promises (and probably a new friend). 
> 
> Next: Pammy and Arthur get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one seat in the circle,  
> Five hundred million in the stalls.  
> Simply everyone will be there,  
> But the safety curtain falls  
> When the bomb that's in the dressing room  
> Blows the windows from their frames.  
> And the prompter in his corner  
> Is sorry that he came.
> 
>  **Jethro Tull** , _No rehearsal_
> 
> This chapter took longer than I planned (partially because it's very action packed), and I've decided it's better to save Pammy/Arthur interaction for the next one (and boy, will it be one). Also, I was going to make Arthur more businesslike and aloof with Harley - but, well, look what the clown man did :3

Harley considered paying a quick visit to her, now former, office. On one hand, it wasn't like Gordon's men hadn't rummaged through her belongings in here already, back when they presumed that she might have been kidnapped or dead. Besides, she needed to get to a payphone as soon as possible - Arkham landlines were most likely bugged by GCPD. In fact, Harley would have been disappointed if they weren't. On the other hand, she needed something to feed to the guard about why she’d disappeared from the lobby in the first place and what had taken her so long in wherever she’d been. 

With a somewhat heavy heart, she settled for sacrificing another precious ten minutes for the sake of proper decoy (and maybe, if she was lucky, of making her rescue mission a bit easier). 

Turned out, luck was on her side - so far, at least. The thing she was looking for - a heavy marble paperweight - rested just where she’d left it two days before, keeping her Joker notes from spilling all over the table. Someone had definitely looked through said notes though - what used to be a neat sheaf was now a messy pile. Harley had to chase away the utterly idiotic, but aesthetically pleasing idea of setting the papers on fire. Not that anyone here was worthy of knowing what she knew, not anymore. But going down in flames, literally, opting for certain death for the sake of pure and raw symbolism, while being a distinctively _Joker thing,_ was not a _Harley_ thing. And what she was having here was her solo performance.

So she took the paperweight, thanking herself for having chosen her capacious crossbody bag over a clutch in the morning, and turned her attentions elsewhere.

It was customary for Arkham doctors to try and make their offices look and feel as personal and homelike as possible - mostly for the sakes of patients who were allowed to have their sessions not in interrogation rooms but in a more comfortable, albeit stereotypical, Freudian couch way. Joan Leland, for example, had a soft spot for paisley cushions and lava lamps. Jeremiah Arkham went out of his way to make his office look like a cozy tea room in a colonial mansion in the state of Maine or somewhere along the lines. Hugo Strange had a miniature Zen rock garden on a windowsill. Jonathan Crane was, well, being Jonathan Crane, but even he had gone as far as to place a Newton’s cradle on his table.

 _Harleen_ had brought photos. 

A range of Harleens from various times and places were now staring at her from the bookshelves, smiling. Little Harleen in a leotard, a medal hanging around her neck. A slightly older Harleen in a leotard. A teenage Harleen in a leotard, gone blonde. Another teenage Harleen, shooting a Stepford smile at the camera, her stepfather’s arm around her waist. Her mother and her stepfather’s wedding photo. Her father - an old black and white photo back from his early 20s. Sophomore year Harleen - ripped jeans, biker jacket - beaming and hugging Pammy. Graduation Harleen in a cap and gown. Welcome-to-Arkham Harleen in a lab coat. 

Harley took the photo with Pammy out of the frame and pocketed it along with an utility knife from the table. After that, she considered herself done there. There was neither time nor need for lengthy reminiscence - besides, the longer she dwelled on it, the harder it might have got. _Just run up and jump._

She shoved some random books and papers into a cardboard box and left for the back door leading into the parking lot - jamming it with a paperweight, just a little, so that it would look closed on the security camera unless someone paid special attention. From there, she made her way back to the lobby, bid goodbye to the guard (this went smoothly, with all the sad-nostalgic-box-in-her arms act) and took off to call Ed. 

Fortunately, there was a phone booth on the bus stop right across the road from the Asylum, and Harley ran over there, shivering. Judging by late August, Halloween this year was going to be chilling, she thought; or maybe, that was the adrenaline rush, or plain human fear talking - the Gotham Narrows, especially in the immediate vicinity of Arkham, were not exactly the safest place to take one's after midnight strolls. This could be outright hilarious, she thought glumly: to die by the knife of a common street mugger, while in the midst of breaking _Joker_ out. But apparently, police presence in the area was heavier this night than it seemed, for she made it to the booth safe and alone. 

She dialed the number that Joker had her learn by heart, and waited. She couldn't have waited for more than half a minute - but to Harley, each of those seconds seemed like a separate, unbearable eternity, the ever-moving hands of Doomsday clock. She almost didn't hear the dial tone over her heart pounding, and nearly gasped when a voice spoke to her all of a sudden. 

"Iceberg Lounge. How can I help you?"

_That posh period jazz club? Really?_

"I… I would like to speak to Mr. Nygma on behalf of Mr. Giggles concerning an urgent matter."

A pause followed, with the very air in the phone booth dripping with dread. 

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but unfortunately, Mr. Nygma is not available at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?"

"It's a matter of life and death," she managed through gritted teeth, doing her best not to sob. "He's being lobotomized in six hours. Maybe sooner. Is there _anyone_ I can speak to? Please?"

"I see. Excuse me for a moment."

Something clicked. _Secure line,_ she understood. 

When she heard the voice on the other end of the line again, it had grown somewhat more serious. 

"Now, ma'am, could you please elaborate whom exactly do I have the honour of talking to?"

She knew that, if Joker had ever mentioned her in his life on the outside of the Asylum at all, by which name it would have been then. 

"It's Harlequin." 

"Pleasure to speak to you at last, Doctor," the voice said. "Although I believe we both agree that we would have preferred it to happen under more fortunate circumstances. My name is Oswald Cobblepot, I am a… business companion of Mr. Nygma's, and I assure you, I am most sorry to hear about Mr. Giggles's current predicament. But shouldn't you be contacting his _troupe_ instead?"

"Those that he had immediate contact with, were either killed or arrested by GCPD. Please, Mr. Cobblepot. Can you do something? Anything?"

"Supposedly," the voice said thoughtfully, "I could. But, ah, you see, Dr. Quinzel, as much as I admire the comic genius of our mutual friend - which is held in high regard by many a patron of Iceberg Lounge, I must say, who much prefer performing their act behind the curtains while the star comedian takes the spotlight… Of course, such a tragic and premature end to his brilliant career would be an utter shame. But on the other hand, I could live with shame. You most likely know, my dear, that Mr. Giggles is not exactly the agreeable type of person. He is a man of his word; but not a man for ramifications. The question is: what might be the benefit for my enterprise here if I choose to engage in this… act of charity?"

"I'll… I'll be indebted to you forever, Mr. Cobblepot."

"Such _heartfelt_ words, Dr. Quinzel," he let out a silky, satisfied chuckle. "But so be it. I shall consider _Mr. Giggles_ and you on my list of debtors then, and might one day call a favor. Six hours, you say?"

"Maybe sooner."

"Expect my _catering service_ incoming at Arkham Asylum in two hours. In the meantime, I suggest you consider your accommodation options, as these, sadly, would be unavailable from me today. Goodbye, Dr. Quinzel."

"Goodbye, Mr. Cobblepot. Thank you."

"Nevermind," she heard him smile pleasantly, "you'll have the opportunity to thank me yet, Dr. Quinzel."

  
  


There was some lousy 24h diner not far from there, but Harley didn't think showing her face in public and making extra witnesses was a good idea. So she waited at the bus stop across the road, still trembling from the cold, exhaustion and adrenaline, clutching the utility knife in her pocket just in case. She didn't want to think that she really might have to use it on someone. She wasn't even sure she would know how to use it in the first place. But having some sort of a makeshift weapon on her here, in the middle of the night… It felt calming. Soothing. Empowering. As if someone was telling her, "You have a chance. Maybe that's not the biggest chance in the world, maybe the odds are uneven beyond repair and there is no changing that. But _some_ chance, at least of going down with a fight, well, now you've got it."

When the cavalry finally arrived, it took the form of a black light van with tinted windows. And, to Harley’s great astonishment, the person who then grinned at her from behind the lowered window of the shotgun seat was Eddie Nashton, alias Nygma - who also, indeed, happened to have a shotgun. 

“Hiya, Doc. Hop on.”

“Ed?! But Mr. Cobblepot told me…” she stuttered, somewhat in between relief and anger. 

“Blah blah blah,” he made a dismissive gesture. “Of course I’ve been sitting next to him all the time. But riddle me this: how would I know you weren’t a bait and weren’t pulling a stunt for Gordon?” 

“This one is not like your usual riddles, Eddie,” Harley noted, getting into the van.

“Because it’s not a riddle. It has no proper answer. I couldn’t have known that, so I had to wait and see until you bury yourself deep enough to go down with me if things go sour, alright?” he let out a good-natured laugh. “And boy, Doc, didn’t you. Save Joker this, I’ll do anything that. Don’t think that Ozzie will let you off the hook now!”

“But what’s in it for you, then?”

“The clown man still owes me big for that last time,” he shrugged, “I’d like to get that back with interest as he promised. Also nice to have you on the tabs, too. Besides, you two are not complete idiots, and I prefer having as much non-idiots in my field of work as possible.”

"I don’t think I’m in your field of work exactly,” Harley said glumly, looking around the van. Ed snorted. 

There were eight more people inside, all armed and nasty-looking, with clown masks at the ready, plus the driver - a tall man in his early 30s, who would have born a striking resemblance to a young Lou Reed, if not for being blonde, that particular icy pale shade of blonde that Harley’s been trying to imitate since she was 15 - almost otherworldly. While the clowns were all clad in black or practical dark blue or gray, the driver wore a pristine white jeans jacket, and had a relaxed look about him that sort of gave away that this was not the first epic prison break he’d been staging. 

Upon sensing Harley’s gaze upon him, he turned her head to her and smiled.

“Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Quinzel. The name’s Jonny. Jonny Frost. I am very flattered to be assisting Mr. J today - it’s an honor.”

“Jonny’s a fanboy,” Ed dismissed, jittering his feet in multicolored sneakers. “But he’s good with guns, I’d say _very_ good. Enough with the social pleasantries though, where next? Have you thought of how do we get in, Doc?”

“Just turn right now, and we’re there,” Harley directed. “I’ve jammed the back door at the parking lot and I hope it stays that way. I don’t know how we get through the checkpoint though, maybe I could…”

“Ah, that’s no biggie,” Ed said cheerfully and, lowering the window just as they pulled level with the checkpoint, emptied the entire clip into the guard’s booth. 

The man fell head down on his table among the pieces of broken and glass, eyes wide open, hand never reaching the panic button. 

“You might wanna update your tabs on me, Doc,” she heard Ed laughing as from underwater or somewhere faraway, “kleptomania _and_ homicidomania!” 

But Harley didn’t really pay attention to whatever he had been saying. 

She was only now starting to understand what exactly she got herself into. 

The door, indeed, stayed the way she'd left it, so the first part of their march through Arkham went more or less smoothly. Harley, half-numb from fear and determination (she wouldn’t let their rescue mission fail, _not after this_ ), guided the party to the infirmary without running into anyone but a night orderly. Ed and the clowns had their weapons at the ready, but Harley motioned them to wait behind the corner and went to confront the orderly herself.

“Doctor Quinzel?” he asked, incredulously. “Weren’t you?..”

“Yes, yes, I was,” Harley sighed. “Dr. Strange wants me to prepare you know whom for the surgery, ECT and all. I guess that’s the final blow, before my papers are ready.”

The orderly eyed her suspiciously, and she knew her bluff was running thin - as the man’s hand crept to his pocket, where she knew his panic button was kept.

“Travis,” she hurried, “it’s Travis, isn’t it? What are you doing? Do you…”

A gunshot cut her words short, and Travis collapsed on the ground with a hole between his eyes. 

“That was taking too long, Doc,” Ed said, “and wasn’t working. You can’t save everyone.” 

He made it forward, whistling under his breath, and they strolled on - Frost giving the trembling Harley an almost sympathetic look. 

They had little time before an alarm would be raised, and came to Joker’s ward almost running. Gordon’s sentry went down instantly under a hailstorm of bullets, as well as two of his comrades who ran down to them from behind the corner - they obviously weren’t prepared for the armed assault by ten experienced mobsters. Harley snatched the gun from the dead man's belt and shot the lock. Joker, startled from his sleep, sat himself on the cot - his face expression changing from hollow determination into excitement, and then into cold, calculated concentration as Harley ran up to him and shoved the gun into his right hand. He threw his uninjured arm over her shoulder, and she helped him to his feet. There were no greetings, no words at all for that matter - but as the weight of his feverish, lean body (all muscle and sinew, she knew now, tremendous strength poured into this delusively frail frame) settled on her shoulders, there was trust and unspoken gratitude, as Harley realized that he was trying as hard as he could to make it easier for her. They stumbled into the corridor, with more policemen now incoming, and as Ed’s goons returned fire, Joker was shooting back now too - from over her shoulder, kickback shaking her body.

“Where now?” Ed yelled, as one of their goons went down. 

“Max sec,” Joker breathed out.

“Have you gone fucking crazier than usual, J?”

“I know what I’m doing, it’s not the first time I’m cutting my little vacation here short, Riddle Boy!” Joker snarled. “Lead the way, Harls!”

And so she did. As soon as they made it to maximum security wing (four guards and two more orderlies dead, _I’ll think of it tomorrow,_ Harley chanted to herself frantically, _I’ll think of it all tomorrow)_ Joker made her take him into the security room where Ed disabled the alarms while their men were shooting the code locks and letting the inmates go free. As Harley dragged the hysterically laughing Joker on her hurting back along the corridors that were more and more turning into literal inferno, she got glimpses of them. Waylon Jones, the cannibal who believed that he was possessed by an alligator demon, was already bashing someone’s head into the wall. Victor Zsasz, the infamous serial killer, lunged himself onto the very person who opened his cell. Victor Fries - a soft-spoken middle-aged man with a PhD in cryophysics, who not only kept his deceased wife’s body frozen in his basement until a means to resurrect the dead would be discovered (that would have been unhealthy, but not _Arkham max sec_ grade of unhealthy), but took to bringing other women and sometimes kids there, to keep her company - gave her a courtly nod, before heading towards the doors. Joker, completely ecstatic, laughed until he almost cried, clinging to her shoulder as they made their way through the mayhem and carnage and into emergency exit, just Ed and Frost following their steps now, leaving Cobblepot’s men to deal with the guards and the bloodthirsty prisoners. As soon as they made it into the parking lot, another four guards approached them - but Frost was really good with guns indeed, and Joker, Harley found out, was even better - even with one arm broken, the other trembling, and head probably still cloudy from the concussion. 

Frost didn’t wait for them to settle comfortably when they got to the van, and floored it that very instant - sending Harley, Joker and Ed tumbling on the dirty floor. Joker groaned, and Harley felt a wave of white-hot, irrational rage surging over her. 

“He’s got his arm broken, mind you!” she yelled, while an amused Eddie watched her as one would an amazing spectacle. “It’s ain’t that hard to go easy ‘round the turns, is it?!”

“Sorry, Doctor Quinzel,” Frost said candidly. 

“I’m…” the rage cooled off, and Harley was now feeling terrified, overwhelmed by grief and guilt and utterly defenseless. “No, I’m sorry, of course you know better how to get away and all that, Mr. Frost. It’s just… I’m just…” 

At that, she found that she could say no more. She crawled up into the corner of the car bulk, sank her head on her arms, and thought she would weep - but no tears came, like something in her chest got frozen into solid rock-hard ice, and would stay that way forever. 

She’d saved Joker. She’d been the cause of death of many people today. And she could feel nothing about it. About either of it. Maybe, she thought, the reaction would kick in later, and that would be torment. Maybe she’d stay that frozen, that dead, forever. She didn’t know. She didn’t really care.

Or, that was what she thought until she felt the burning-hot touch of Joker’s bony fingers brushing over hers. 

She raised her head. He was now sitting on the floor next to her, cradling his arm awkwardly, looking at her with those radiant, unblinking eyes of his - eyes of a visionary, eyes of a madman. And there was a smile on his face - one of pure, unfeigned joy. 

“Welcome to the other side, Harleykins,” he whispered to her between pained giggles. “It’s fun. I promise.”

And that was when she collapsed onto his chest and cried her heart out, while he was brushing her hair with his bloodied hand that smelled of chlorine and gunpowder. She wept both for herself and for him, the man who reveled in the abyss he’d been cast into, who praised and welcomed the darkness that had skewed him into a cruel mockery of the gentle soul he once had been. She’d just sacrificed her whole life to save him - but in the end, he thought he’d been saving her, from whatever she wanted to lure him back into. _Joker 1, Harley 0._ And she hadn’t even told him about that Cobblepot business yet. 

But wasn’t he here for her now, in this abyss? Wasn’t he the one pulling her to his chest and trying to quiet her sobs?

Maybe there was a hope in Hell, after all. 

“Where to now?” Frost asked her. 

“117 Holland Drive,” she managed. “That’s where my friend lives. She doesn’t know but… I don’t know anywhere else.”

“Ah,” Joker said. “The plant lady?”

“Yes,” Harley sniffed. “And please don’t call her that. We've… reconnected. Thank you for the advice, by the way,” she added dryly. 

“Well,” Ed said merrily, “I guess we shall see if this friendship lasts.” 


	12. Easy come, easy go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur makes arrangements. Harley gets an unexpected insight. 
> 
> Next: Harley inspects some memorabilia. The Cobblepot issue is brought up at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, dear friends! Firstly, I hope that everyone is safe and healthy, and practices social distancing. Since I most definitely do, and since I am now working from home and have passed the toughest of my deadlines so far (phew!), I have finally been able to upload the new chapter. Actually, it was going to be a lot longer (like, a LOT lot), but then I've decided that it works best as two separate items, and this way, or so it seems to me at least, the dynamics between Harley and Arthur gets highlighted nicely. And definitely no more pauses as long as this one was! Pinky promise! (Also never leaving this story orphaned or on a forever hiatus, that's a total no-go.) 
> 
> Also I would recommend Hooverphonic's 'Mad About You' as the imaginary background music for Harley and Arthur's dance. The original music video (see it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVKGXgHDMvQ) is pretty much how I envision it, at least the mood of it, in a way! But this orchestral rendition probably could arguably work even better, being so... jazz-tinted and all: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EA-MIYY1bg

Pammy was not exactly amused by discovering a desperate Harley, a beaten and giggling Joker clutching to her shoulders, and two heavily armed men standing on her doorstep.

In fact, she greeted the group with a gun pointed at their faces - before she processed who exactly was there in front of her and lowered the weapon with a disappointed frown. Harley could tell that Pam was terrified - her skin, naturally pale as it was, took another level in parlour, and her normally red lips went almost white. But if anyone was an expert in playing it tough, that was Dr. Pamela Isley. 

“Sorry Harley,” she said levelly, “I have an appointment early tomorrow morning, so maybe another time.”

“Red,” Harley begged, “please. It was a matter of life and death, and I swear, he and I will be leaving in the morning. I can’t go home, I would if I could! But they’ll shoot me on sight I bet!” 

“Okay,” Pam sighed, “fine. You come in. You owe me an explanation at any rate. The TV clown,” and she gestured at Joker with the gun disdainfully, which sent him in another fit of giggles - _genuine_ giggles _,_ as Harley could now recognize at once, “sleeps outside. As well as the thugs.”

“Beg your pardon, Ma’am,” Eddie piped in, indignantly, “I here am not a thug but a qualified specialist in social engineering, so to say, as well as in regular engineering and information technologies, and I also happen to have a PhD in Neurophysics, it being actual _science_ \- which you could have also practiced, by the way, in case you didn’t trade the noble realm of natural sciences for the trendy lefty mumbo-jumbo in the humanities, but oh woe, you did!”

“And here I thought my jokes were bad,” Joker muttered under his breath. 

“Ed, would you kindly shut it now? Thank you!” Harley snapped, and then turned back to Pam. “Look, Red, Eddie and Jonny here will go. They’ve just… escorted us here. Safely. But Arthur - he doesn’t have anywhere to go, just like me. Not anymore. I told you - we’ll leave first thing in the morning, but now,” she was almost sobbing again now, “if you ever were my friend, Red, _please._ ”

“Alright,” Pam said through gritted teeth, “the clown can come in. Say your goodbyes to Mr. Neurophysics and friend here before I reconsider not shooting them, and before anyone of the neighbours sees you lot.”

“Ed, Jonny,” Harley blurted. “Thank you! I…”

“Oh, I’ll keep in touch for the thank you,” Ed chirped, before taking off towards the fire escape. “See you soon, Doc!”

“I’ll keep in touch too, Doctor Quinzel, Mr. Joker,” Frost said, almost awkwardly. “On behalf of, well, you know whom. But also if you need any assistance, I mean, free of charge…”

God, the voice in Harley’s head noted, the man _is_ a fanboy. 

“Thank you so very much, Jonny,” she smiled most sweetly and innocently at him. “This is very gracious of you, as well as coming along with us for the ride…”

“Anytime,” he grinned, and in a second he was gone as well. 

“I probably should have given that guy an autograph… _what?_ A regular one, Harls, not as I usually mean it!” Joker laughed exhaustedly, as Harley helped him over the threshold - and into Pam’s home. 

Pam’s place was like a forest clearing teared straight out of a dark fairy tale book - plants covered pretty much everything, with just narrow pathways beelining between giant clay pots, tables lined with smaller saplings and makeshift wooden structures supporting lush lianas - these had a slightly unnerving flair about them. Botanic lamps, in fluorescent purple or pink, could be spotted here and there, but most of the space was left intact by any light except the dim watery green of the early morning seeping through Pam’s own personal jungle. 

"Is it poisonous?" Joker inquired enthusiastically, pointing his finger at a large succulent. A long, pale stem sprouted from it like a monstrous digit, only with a flower bud, that looked almost ready to nip, for a claw. 

"How about I add some to your tea and we find out," Pam snapped, leading them past what must have been her bedroom door and into the kitchen. 

"Oh," Joker giggled, "you're funny. I like that. Hey Harls, why didn't you tell me the plant lady's funny? I might have wanted to meet her earlier."

"Glad you didn't," Pam said. "Now," she banged a plate on the table in front of Harley, "egg sandwich. Clown," she banged down another one, "egg sandwich. They're yesterday's, but I suppose it will be best not to order takeout now, with all the witness avoidance and all. Even if you two hide, they know I live alone and don't usually order for two, so someone might put two things together."

"Definitely," Harley said. The cold and the exhaustion were settling in again. She knew that she must be starving, but couldn't get herself to take a bite. 

Neither, it seemed, could Joker. 

"Tea?" Pam called. "Coffee?"

"Coffee," they said in unison and Joker smiled, awkwardly. 

"Instant," Pam announced gruffly, placing two mugs on the table and then returning to stand with her back to the counter, arms crossed, eyes hard and defiant. "And now pray tell me, _Harleen Frances Quinzel,_ what the Hell is going on in here."

"Why," Joker offered, sipping on his coffee, "piece of cake. You know, Eddie's better at this, plant lady. I mean, she's obviously breaking me out of Arkham. Where's the riddle in that?"

"That much I've figured, clown. But why?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Why do people ever do anything? Why are you harboring fugitives, for example? Is this some sort of atonement for abandoning a friend for the unforgivable crime of not living up to your petty standards?"

"So… she told you about that," Pam said flatly. 

"Of course she did, Pam-m _ey!_ " Joker exclaimed in his most flirtatious "Mur-ray" sing-song and batted his eyelashes at her. "What other friends did she have left but a certain very charming murderous psychopath?"

"Enough, you two!" Harley cut in, verging on the border of hysterics. "I broke him out because he's a human being, Red! What else would you want me to have done? Watch his brains sizzle because Crane effectively denied him help?"

"Such a noble sentiment, Harley. But I'm not human, not anymore. _No, I_ ' _m_ _not,_ " Joker articulated pointedly. "So this is not why you did it, and you know it. But play your little game all you want, Harls. Just remember we don't have all the time in the world for it."

I'm obviously missing some cue again, she thought, dizzily and desperately. How can he be so cunning and calculative - now, of all times? What is this cat-and-mouse game of puns again, laced with a not-so-thinly veiled threat? She messed with her lines once and he went for her throat, so what would he do if she can't live up to it now, after she'd brought herself to the spotlight? 

She should have felt worried, or hurt, but all she could actually feel was overwhelming fatigue.

"Fine," she sighed. "But for the time being I suggest we call it a night. You've suffered a concussion, Joker, and human or embodiment of the idea of rebellion all you like, it will do no good to you unless you get some rest."

"You can sleep on the couch," Pam said dryly. 

"But of course," he chuckled, and there was some even darker underlining to it that gave Harley the chills outright. 

"We're leaving first thing in the morning," she hurried, not really knowing whom of them she was trying to reassure exactly. "I mean… Joker is…"

"Oh, but you're definitely coming with me, Harley," he laughed again, a shrill, cold, high-pitched bark of it. "You don't think you're going anywhere after we've been having such _fun_ together, do you?"

  
  


Sometime about 4 AM, she went back to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. Or, so she thought she'd go, there and back again, but she was to make her way past where Joker was resting. And there she stopped in her tracks, and watched. 

The door was agape.

Joker was dancing. 

He told her once in a session how he danced after he killed those three. How he stormed into the public bathroom, chased by the fear, and desperation, and guilt, and how he was going to bring himself to end his own misery. That was the only way out, he reckoned. How he peered into the dirty mirror, expecting to see a monster with red fangs dripping - or just a pitiful lunatic, a freak, a _clown._ And how he saw a beautiful, powerful creature instead. Someone who made a difference for once. Someone who did something right at last. 

And he danced. 

He was dancing now, too, moving slowly and soundlessly in the thick milky whites and the solemn greens of the earliest light. He couldn’t move his arm, so he stepped around as if someone was holding it - spinning his invisible dame. Despite the dirty Arkham scrubs and no makeup, he looked young and graceful with his eyes closed, his every step precise and deliberate. Was this a celebration of the newly gained freedom? Or was it the distinctivly Jokeresque manner of getting his thoughts together in the quiet - or, more specifically, his own sort of quiet? _I’m always hearing music,_ he’d admitted to her once, and Harley asked if that bothered him. _No,_ he said. _It only bothers me when it’s drowned out._

Well, nothing drowned it out now. 

Not until he opened his eyes and saw her.

Pam borrowed Harley her nightie - a tad too tight around the chest and a tad longer than it should have been, and crispy white like a shroud. So she reckoned she might had come off as a ghost to him - a silent white figure in the dark corridor, watching him intensely. But Joker either wasn’t surprised or didn’t care.

Without saying a word, he streched his good arm out to her, and she took it.

And so they danced, to the never-dying music in his head. He was a good dancer, knowing how to lead and when to give her space, and she was good at following, trained into perfect precision by years of gymnastics routine. He smelled of gunpowder and chlorine and blood, and of coffee and cigarettes, and Harley could feel weird fever radiating from his wiry, incredibly strong body. But she knew what he was expecting of her, every moment and every move, and even as he pulled her closer to his chest and the plaster cast, she knew for sure that this was no romance. That was something so much bigger, so much more important for him - his dance, his _act._ A piece of his art that they were now creating together. 

A first ever glimpse that she’d got into what was going on in that mind of his - firsthand. 

She didn’t know how long it took - she almost forgot how to breathe. But in the end, he let her hand go, took a step backwards and gave her a small, deliberate bow. 

She lowered her head, and did a little bow back. 

He straightened up and shot her a sharp, satisfied smile.

“Be a darling, Harley,” he purred, “and bring me the phone, I know she has one. Wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome, would we?”

“S-sure, Mr. J,” she said, stunned by this sudden change of demeanor. “In a minute.”

“And Harls?” he called after her, as she turned to go and fetch what he wished for. “Thank you.”

She wasn’t as stupid as to believe that that was for risking (and effectively sacrificing) her life in assisting his escape. No, that was the closest to an apology, and to admittance of vulnerability that she would ever get - that anyone would ever get from him.  
  
“Anytime, Mr. J,” she smiled, more to herself than to him, and left. 

  
  


In about 5 hours, Jonny Frost knocked on Pamela Isley’s door again. 

“Oh,” Harley said, opening it, “please wait a minute. He’s just finishing his makeup.”

“Oh no, Doctor Quinzel,” Frost said, “I am afraid I’m here for you. I was instructed by Mr. Joker to transfer you to a safer location.”

Harley didn’t appreciate the idea of being _transferred_ as an inanimate object. No, she didn’t like that at all. But betraying that in front of a person who was obviously double-timing now for both Cobblepot _and_ Joker would mean indicating that she doubted Joker’s judgement - and Harley expected that to be a very bad idea. 

“Very well,” she said sweetly. “Let me get dressed then.”

After that, she closed the door and headed straight off to the bathroom, where Joker, indeed, was applying finishing touches of red on his smile in front of Pam’s mirror. Pam herself, having made her disgust at the whole situation very vocal, was angrily doing dishes in the kitchen. 

“There’s Mr. Frost at the door,” Harley informed him. “He says…”

“I know what he says,” he interrupted, not once tearing his eyes from the mirror. Since Harley didn't move from the door, he put the paintbrush down in a short while and sighed. 

“A joke is only funny unless it has to be explained, and I am not in a habit of elaborating on my own tricks,” he said, “but I’ll grant you this one, this time. Just once, understood? There, I have to grab some supplies and do a little… teambuilding, as it occurs to me that our small variete is running low on _props_ and _loyal employees._ It shall be safer for you to be elsewhere, for the time being, so while I’m at it, Jonny will get you to my place. I’ll be there as well, when I can. This is also a one-time situation, I’m not expecting you to play Goody Housewife in the future. In fact, I’ll be expecting just the opposite from you, but for now, that’s that.”

“But your arm...” Harley said quietly. 

"I _said,_ " he uttered through gritted teeth, and she saw his hand squeeze the paintbrush and tremble, "that's that. Go. We don't want to have a yelling match here like an old bickering married couple, do we? So be a puddin', Harley-girl dear, and _kindly do what I ask you to, if that is alright with you of course, but if it is, pretty please, would you?_ "

The saccharine smile he shot her through the mirror looked somehow a lot more unsettling than his fingers, contorted in a rage he tried to suppress with might and main, but that was not the thing that made her nod and go - no, not the fear for her dear life, despite Joker already having tried to kill her once, but the one particular word he'd just let slip. Or, to put it precisely, three particular words.

"To my place."

_She was going to his place._

For the first time in this longest day, that seemed to have lasted a whole bloody, mad, bizarre, caleidoskopic eternity Harley was supposing would never come to an end, she finally realized - the _felt-in-the-marrow-of-her-bones_ sort of “realized” - the very simple fact that she had even stated to Pam, herself. That Joker was human. And as a human being, he needed a place to rest, to eat, to sleep, to dress his many a wound. He needed a lair, a base of operations, a home. 

And judging from having survived for so long, he had one.

And she was going there. Now.


	13. No way to slow down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley undergoes yet another makeover.
> 
> Next: Harley and Arthur go dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur just loves to avoid important discussions, doesn't he? 
> 
> Also, the actual lyrics of the song (here it is, by the way: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlnYVHRp128) read "I think, God, he stole the handle". But Arthur hears what he wants to hear.

It didn’t take Harley long to change back into her jeans and jester T-shirt, stuff whatever little possessions she had with her into the backpack and hug Pammy goodbye. 

“You don’t mean I’m staying one-on-one with  _ him _ , do you,” she asked warily, while returning the hug nevertheless.

“Count me out of here already,” Joker called from the lobby. “Gotta be sure Harley’s caught her ride, am I right? And by the way,” he dropped his voice a bit, “I have very good memory, plant lady. Ask Harls, she’d know. She’s my psychiatrist, after all!”

“Yeah,” Harley spoke awkwardly, adjusting the backpack strap on her shoulder. “He does.”

“Well I hope you’ll remember then,” Pam said, “that I gave you two shelter, effectively making myself an accomplice to your breakout. Counting on your good memory here, clown.”

“Ah sure,” Joker said sweetly, “sure. Come on, Doc, are we going yet?”

“Right behind you, Mr. J,” Harley said with faux cheerfulness and stepped outside. She looked back just in time to see Pam close the door behind them without watching her go. 

Suprisingly, Joker put a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. He did it half-heartedly - well, maybe, not exactly so, but rather as a person who didn’t know a bit about proper expression of human emotions but did his best to make some notes and study. As, Harley thought, he must have studied that all his life; rehearsed  _ being human _ till everything went smoothly. 

He’d want to get it right. 

“Didn’t I just mention I have an awful good memory, Doc?” he said, motioning her towards the fire escape. “You wrote I was smart, didn’t you?”

“Mnemonic capabilities and intelllectual capacity are not one and the same, Joker,” Harley sighed, as they proceeded down the stairs. “But yes, you are smart. Very smart. Your proneness to delusion, your instances of derealization and depersonalization, and also your dyslexy may have made it seem another way, but you scored 140 on Eysenck test, and that’s impressive. You have considerable literary and artistic talent, and were it not for the trauma you’ve suffered, you might have been very successful in arts. I mean,” she hurried, seeing his face darken for a moment, “in  _ mainstream  _ arts. You know, the types that don’t usually involve mass murder. And also yes, aside from traumatic amnesia, you have awful good memory. Why?”

“Because trust me - or should I say, trust yourself on this one - I remember how that feels, Harls. You’re empty. You’re cold inside. Don’t tell me you aren’t - I’ve been there. You think you’d give everything to be able to go back to your warm cozy self again, back into your homely little world. But you know that you’ve gone too far, for too long, and there’s no turning back. Like the train song, you know? On the radio? They aired it on WNEW-FM or something?”

“‘Locomotive Breath’?” she managed a faint smile. 

“Yeah, that’s it!  _ Old Charlie stole the handle, and the train, it won’t stop going, no way to slow down. _ Remember?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do remember.”

“So do you remember how it goes in the end? He says -  _ thank God he stole the handle.  _ Now, I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in anything, really, except chaos, because chaos is fair. But I remember how scary that might be until you get it. And there’s just one thing left to get. One little teeny-tiny thing, and I’ll give you a hint, alright?” 

She looked him in the eye, and nodded.

“See,” he said, smiling, “the train is a roller coaster.”

And at that, he pushed her down the stairs. 

Anyone else would have to do their best not to stumble to their death, but Harley’s years of gymnastics training and ingrained reflexes made that a piece of cake. Almost automatic, to tell the truth - she didn’t even notice the risks much or reflect on what she was actually doing, just grouped and flipped and flopped across the railings as she would have on balance beams. She was postively sure Joker knew that would be the case. That didn’t make Harley fume with anger at that move of his any less though, but she wasn’t granted a chance to call him out, for in a moment, she was already standing there in front of Jonny Frost in the getaway car - a dirty 1970 Ford Mustang that had once probably been gray - and Joker was nowhere to be seen. 

“Doctor Quinzel,” Frost smiled amiably and opened the shotgun seat door for her, “please.”

“Thank you, Mr. Frost,” she said through gritted teeth, climbing in. “And call me Harley. Everyone does.”

They took off to the opposite end of the city, and as Harley calmed down a bit, she had plenty of time to reflect on the pep talk Joker had given her before pushing her down the stairs. She was starting to get used to those patterns of his - first a sudden, desperate move for intimacy and trust, then a no less sudden, cruel withdrawal. He was probably more scared of her, in a sense, than she was of him - and upon thinking that, she couldn’t help a wry, lopsided smile. 

Still, he must have referred to his last day as Arthur - the day he left his home, with a dead body behind the unlocked door, with a determination never to return again. Hence the costume, hence the mask - to combat the fear he’d just admitted to, the agonizing remains of his wronged and vulnerable humanity. And what was his advice to her, then? 

_ The train is a roller coaster. _

“The end of all hope is freedom,” she said aloud. “Nothing can be done anymore, so... we’re free to have fun.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Oh sorry, Mr. Frost, it’s nothing. I’ve just had an idea, that’s all.”

Joker’s place turned out to be a warehouse probably abandoned once to be turned into rent-out offices and then abandoned again. The letters “...sement Mile” read faintly along the windowless wall lined with rusty, charred dumpsters. The place, and the area as a whole, looked like nobody’d set foot in here in years. 

“His only investment,” Frost noted, climbing out of the car. “He bought the place to burn it down.”

“So… you’ve been with Mr. J for quite a while, I take it?”

“I wish,” he sighed, leading her towards the door. “I’m on my internship, so to say. He told me that yesterday on the phone. Also told me to mention this to you. He said, no burning this place down, he’s saving that for himself.”

“Roger that,” Harley said. Why would I ever want to do something like that, she wondered. 

They went up a creaky ladder into what must have once been several rooms - a locker room surrounded by glass cabins. Since then, glass had been broken, and some of the feeble privacy walls got torn down. The shards creaked under her heels as she went. In the locker room area, a dining table was lying on its side surrounded by broken chairs, as if someone was hammering them into the walls and the lockers, leaving more than a dent on either. But then Harley spotted a vanity dresser by the window, with a pristine mirror, greasepaint boxes and makeup supplies laid out in the most careful manner - an unexpected islet of tidiness, obsessive at that even, in the sea of desolation, garbage and dust. 

She went up to it carefully, leaning her hands on the dresser’s edge, and looked herself in the eye. The Harley in the mirror was tired and pale, with dark roots starting to show in her pearl blonde hair and making her seem even paler by contrast. Her blue eyes, wide and unblinking, were somehow completely lacklustre. 

_ I’m like a ghost among ghosts,  _ she thought. 

“As I might be staying for a while,” she said aloud, “where can I get some supplies?”

“Well, I’ve stacked the cupboard for you with instant porridge and crisps and whatnot over here, and there’s a kettle and a gas-jet over there, and the shower and WC are...”

“Could I get some hair dye?” she interrupted. “I look  _ horrid. _ ”

“Ah. Yes, sure. Just tell me which colour.”

“Your shade,” she said. “And maybe, some clothes to change into? Dr. Isley’s don’t fit me much.”

“Oh, but boss had the clothes already delivered for you,” Frost said. “Check out the lockers. And me, I’ll be off to fetch that hair dye. Good luck, Doct… Harley.”

In a while, she heard the door downstairs close and lock. 

_ So,  _ she remarked to herself,  _ I’m a prisoner.  _

Though, Harley had to give Joker that, she was more of an honorary one. Rumbling through the cupboards, she procured enough food indeed, from canned beans to an impressive range of crunchies. This was not what she’d call healthy eating exactly, but everything seemed edible and long-lasting. The water was running, both hot and cold, the electricity worked, and the shower room proved to be way cleaner than Harley would expect. She discovered a bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo and a towel, and made a mental note to enlight Jonny Frost on subtler apects of human, specifically female, hygiene. Resting assured she had all the necessities at her disposal, she then turned her attention to the lockers. 

As soon as she found Carnival’s costume, neatly pressed and ironed and smelling of machine wash, she knew for sure what this place was. 

Joker had it put in his own locker - the name “A. Fleck” in black marker pen still read on the inside of the door. There was also a stack of cheap notebooks - clearly, the Books of Jokes _.  _ A post-it sticker flashed bright yellow on the top one, spelling ‘DON’T TOUCH. PROPARTY OF JOKER’. Harley considered that for a bit, rather idly, and didn’t. Joker’s trust was the main - and only - reason she was still alive (and being thrown away for the police to get her would be no better than a bullet). That she knew. But firstly - and foremostly - she genuinely didn’t want to betray him. 

Not again. 

So she closed Carnival’s locker, looking into which felt like walking over a grave somehow, and went to check out the next one. There, she found what Frost what was most likely talking about. Only she wouldn’t normally classify that as clothes. 

Joker had procured her a clown costume (that figured, Harley grinned to herself bitterly). It was probably a smaller men’s one (which, on the other hand, guaranteed it’d fit): a pair of cropped pants in a parti-coloured rhombus pattern with rainbow socks to match, a pink dress shirt, a pair of yellow suspenders, a yellow bow tie and a black-and-white chequered newsboy cap. The only thing that didn’t go in tune with the clown ensemble was a pair of black Dr. Marten’s. These sported candy pink laces, though. 

“Perfect,” she muttered to herself. “Let’s dress up as a demented glam rocker with a thing for bubblegum and chickens.”

To Harley’s utmost surprise, what she saw in the mirror after taking a shower and changing into Joker’s attire of choice was not that bad nevertheless. The garishness of the ensemble was dulled, in part, by the lighter shades, and all in all demonstrated a common denominator that didn’t make things look as out of place as they did separately. Having tucked her outgrown hair under the cap and letting just a couple of pale blonde strands fall loose, Harley looked like a cotton candy version of a classic harlequin, devoid of anything betraying her age and gender. Obeying some strange impulse, she sat down at the vanity mirror and took a palette of greasepaint. 

_ White,  _ she thought.  _ The face should be white, and the lips should be black, and maybe a couple of diamonds... _

She then tossed the palette away as if it would have bitten her, and hastily took the cap off. With wet hair falling down her shoulders and dark roots showing, she instantly felt like herself again. 

“Let’s go see if there’s anything fun left in here,” Harley told herself reassuringly. For some reason, that didn’t feel like reassuring at all. 

The cabin that had suffered most damage used to belong, as Harley learned from rummaging in the overturned desk, to Arthur’s former boss by the name of Hoyt Vaughn. She’d never think that payrolls may prove to be an interesting reading, but that they were. From Hoyt’s notes it followed clearly that the man wasn’t that willing to pay Arthur his honest 40% of the gig’s price, and would often invent some made-up reason to cut down on his payment for this or that. Vaughn kept some sort of tabs on his employees, and Arthur’s were a lengthy litany of social slip-ups and plain misfortunes converted into hefty fines going into Hoyt’s pockets. Arthur claiming that some teenage thugs had beaten him up with a rented sign, getting the sign broken in the process; deduction from paycheck. Arthur got mugged on his way from the gig to the office, and his costume was ruined; deduction from paycheck and no refund for cleaning service. Arthur was late for the morning debrief - not for a gig, mind you - because his mother had had some sort of seizure; deduction from paycheck. Judging from the same tabs, some of Arthur’s co-workers weren’t above showing to gigs drunk or plain skipping those; but nobody got fined as mercilessly as Arthur. But of course, Harley thought. He loved this job and would cling to it no matter what, and not it was like he could have find a position elsewhere. Hoyt knew that, and exploited that, assured of Arthur’s defenselessness. Well, little did he know. 

She wondered why Arthur didn’t track down and kill that one. Or maybe, he did; it just didn’t land on TV. The arthurs and hoyts of this world were equal in one respect, at least - in being unequal to waynes, pennyworths and franklins. 

She understood well enough why he hadn’t burnt this mausoleum down to the ground, despite his initial intentions. This all was an inadvertent monument to Arthur Fleck’s sad, lonely pre-Joker life. On one hand, it would trigger the last shreds of whatever humanity and vulnerability he’d left in him, and Joker would hate that, of course. But on the other hand, that would also be a monument to where he came from, the dashing before-and-after; and clinging to Joker’s arrogance and using it as a pretence, the Arthur half of him would stay J’s hand, day after day.

Or maybe, he just enjoyed turning the place of his past torment and humiliation into his primary stronghold.

“Interesting?” someone inquired behind her back, and Harley gave a start of surprise. Joker was standing in the doorway, watching her rummage through Hoyt’s papers. He had changed into his signature suit again - did he have an endless supply of those or what? - and sported a brand new cast on his broken arm, with a yellow smiley face sticker slapped on it. 

“Quite so,” she said dryly. “Unlike trying to not get my neck broken.”

“Come on, Harls,” Joker sighed. “I knew you would be alright,” he went over to her, kneeled down before Harley and patted her hand with his good one - dry and feverish. “Besides, I did it for your own good. You want to survive in this world, you be ready.”

“I’ve been surviving in this world for 26 years alright, thank you,” she scoffed. 

“In your world. Not mine. You should never let your guards down, or you’re dead. Trust me. I only want what’s the best for you, given what I have in mind for us for today.”

“So, are we then robbing a bank or what?” Harley joked mirthlessly. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, did you like the outfit I got you?”

“It’s… not bad,” Harley admitted grudgingly, and then, feeling that she might have been pushing just a bit too far, shot him a smile. “I never thought I’d like it, but I liked it, in fact. I really did. I’d think you’d stick with the harlequin thing, though.”

“That I would’ve, but I didn’t have much time. So, I hope you don’t mind wearing one of Carnival’s first ones just for today. Because you’re right, we’re robbing a bank.”

Watching her jaw drop, he burst into genuine laughter.

“Just kidding Doc, just kidding! Actually, we’re only paying a visit to Iceberg Lounge. Wouldn’t be nice to make friends in need wait up on us, would it?”

Harley froze. But then, all she had left was to take a leap of faith.

“Mr. J, there’s one thing you should know. When I was arranging for your escape, I… I may have made a promise to Mr. Cobblepot… on behalf of us both. Sorry. He wouldn’t have helped otherwise.”

“That much I’ve figured,” Joker said, completely unphazed. “I guess you’ll have to keep up to it, then. And now, let’s get you ready! Unless you want to make headlines and mugshots, of course.”

He painted her face white and her lips darkest red, and added a small black diamond under each of her eyes. He was humming to himself under his breath while paintng, his concentration never broken by armed men in clown masks going to and fro, and Harley soon fell under that spell as well. She was still furious with him for testing her in such a manipulative and brutal manner, but these moments while he was working on her visage, singing softly, proved to be the first moments of genuine peace in those frantic two days, and Harley let herself bask in it, somehow knowing it that Joker wouldn’t cruelly shake it off her this time. 

Not here, not now.

“There,” he said at last. “Have a look.”

“I… ah,” she was short for words. 

The creature in the mirror just wasn’t her. 

This wasn’t Dr. Harleen - but neither it was Harley Quinzel. Something ethereal was standing there before her - a porcelain jester figurine, deceptively fragile to look at but cold and hard on the surface. She had the same flair of uncanny innocence about her now just as Joker did, and she’d almost believe herself were she to say she was there just to make people laugh. Carnival’s pastel rainbow costume screamed naivete and sad, hopeless kindness. But what Joker did to her face - those specks of coated blood and powder burns upon deathly while - hinted: the porcelain doll was rigged.

One turn of a key to this music box - and  _ kaboom.  _

Noting how in awe and astounded she was, he smiled and placed a peck on the top of her head. Harley, unexpectedly, wasn’t startled, not this time. Strangely, random physical contact felt increasingly normal between the two. 

“Now, do your hair.”

“Hmmm. Let me see,” she said. Not much was to be done here, so she scraped her still wet hair in two ponytails and tucked those under the cap. 

“That’ll have to do for now, until I dye it,” she explained, and Joker nodded. “So, what’s the plan?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” he said merrily. “But trust me, you’ll like it.”


	14. Sing, Sing, Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! An update! And yes, this is the chapter with their first actual, fully consensual and romantic kiss. So sorry for having taken so long with it, and thank you so very much for staying with me and this story! 
> 
> Next: Arthur makes amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Harley are dancing to this one in the Iceberg Lounge: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F13JNjpNW6c

“I’m alright, Mr. J. Everything’s fine.” 

Joker thrust his head back and let out a dry, mirthless laugh. 

“Let me be the judge of that, Doctor.” 

Harley wrinkled her nose at his condescending tone, but considered it against her better judgement to get into an argument with her ex-patient. She could feel a darker lining to his almost childish agitation, a desire not just for action but for  _ violence,  _ and although Joker had been nothing but civil and even caring to her so far - well, aside from trying to strangle her back in Arkham and then pushing her down the stairs about 10 hours ago - she wouldn’t go as far as to test this elusive immunity. 

Having driven fairly away from the Amusement Mile and into the somewhat nicer part of town, they ditched the grey Mustang, and Frost hotwired a black Porsche 911. This, Jonny noted wryly, was the closest thing to a limo (requested by Joker) that they could get without drawing too much attention. 

“But I  _ love  _ drawing attention,” Joker pouted then, and Harley could see Frost tensing with apprehension. “Though... alright-y, then. Let’s save it for the grand entrance.”

And that was how Harley ended ripping through the Gotham night in a stolen car, with a grim entourage of two more stolen cars full of killer clowns at their heels, and feeling absolutely out of her element. The latter, she considered, would have only been natural - had she not known better than lie to herself. What really rattled her was not the fact that she was wanted, perched next to Joker of all people and going on what could only be some cruel and elaborate heist; no, that was not the thing, but Harley knew she could have pinpointed the truth in a wink if she only wanted to. 

She was just getting the vibe that maybe she did not want that.

Joker must have sensed something, as he squinted at her and hummed something thoughtfully. 

“Hey! I know why you’re all twitchy, Harls!” he exclaimed then, and let down the window. In one quick and fluid movement, he snatched the cap from her head and threw it into the street. The black and white thing somersaulted awkwardly along the road, and not long after it disappeared from view, Harley heard a loud crash and a cry, and a car horn blaring. 

“Silly ol’ me,” Joker grinned. “Nobody likes a copycat, do they?”

Obeying his directions, Harley undid the pigtails and remade her hair in two buns on top of her head, fairly reminiscent of a harlequin’s headdress. Joker was holding a compact mirror up to her helpfully, and when she was done, he reached out his hand and ruffled her hair a bit, giving the hairstyle a messier, almost feral flair. 

“Bye-bye Carnival, hello Harley Quinn,” he chuckled, and Harley, her heart twitching, forced a smile.

“Thanks, Mr. J. That’s a lot better.”

They pulled over by the back door of the Iceberg Lounge. The security posted there moved wordlessly upon seeing Joker and his entourage emerge from the cars - either they knew better than trying to stop the special guest, or the clown party have been expected. Before Harley could step out of the Porsche though, Joker gestured to interrupt her, circled the car and made a show of offering her his good hand with a flourish. 

Well, Harley thought to herself, so  _ this  _ is how we’re playing it. 

She let her hand slip into his and followed to where the brass was blaring. 

The  _ sanctum sanctorum  _ of Cobblepot’s establishment screamed art deco to the brim. The walls were made from one way mirror, which made the building stand out enough from the outside, and on the inside these enormous glass displays were criss-crossed by gold and brass, bent at sharp angles, giving a perfect impression of ice peaks glazed with melted down treasures, as if some dragonlike monster had breathed on them - and failed to destroy them. The pedestal where the big band sat, playing the deafening swing, was coated in crystal panels - this was no plastic, not even glass, Harley realized, that was  _ actual  _ crystal. Raw, sharp shards of what seemed to be actual  _ diamonds  _ adorned the lightning fixtures. 

They entered quietly from one of the service doors, and nobody have noticed them so far, engrossed in their own leisure. The public gathered went rather well with the interior. Polished, well-groomed men in their 40s, all dressed in white tie costumes, and their ephemeral dames in movie stars’ dresses were peppered by scarcely clad waitresses that seemed ripped out straight from Tihuana bibles. The brass band played as if it was their last day on Earth and they wanted desperately to make it count, so Harley couldn’t help but snap her fingers to the rhythm. But nobody else seemed to pay any attention to the music - everybody was seemingly wrapped up their own quiet talks. The band only made it difficult - but in a place like the Iceberg Lounge, there  _ had  _ to be a jazz band, and a good one at that, if only for show. That was normal, not weird in the slightest - but Harley preferred to dwell on this as if it was some strange thing rather than on the darkness blooming slowly in her own heart. 

Joker seemed to think along the same lines. He bent down to whisper in Harley’s ear.

“What a bunch of  _ bores” _ , he chuckled darkly.

“Yeah. The band is so damn good, and nobody’s dancing”, Harley agreed dreamily.

And as if on cue, his eyes lighted up. 

“Let’s show them how it’s done,” he smiled predatory and whipped out his gun. It took Joker one round to the ceiling to make the public scream, and another - to make the band stop playing. 

“Never mind us, ladies and gentlemen!” he cried out merrily. “Just play  _ Tutti Frutti  _ for us if you please!”

The band obeyed, and Joker offered Harley his hand once more. She knew without a word what was expected of her, and to her own surprise, she found herself happy to oblige - exhilaratingly so.

This dance was nothing like the one at Pam’s though. Joker wasn’t dancing for himself - oh no, he was in the limelight now and he knew it. Sensual and wild, this dance was a display of power - that even with his arm broken, fresh from the battleground, he was unstoppable and invulnerable. The show had to go on. Starting off as a jive, their dance soon transgressed into something next to proper acrobatic routine, and Harley even did a handstand, which earned her a quick glance of appreciation from Joker. She soon lost herself in the dance as well - as insane as it was, it was somehow freeing, banishing away all her fears and worries, about her fate, about Cobblepot and her debt to him, about Pam, about anything. Only the music, and the dance, and Joker’s hands were left, and she hardly registered all the gaping mouths and eyes wide with fear around - but in the few moments when she did, she found their terror and helplessness outright  _ hilarious.  _ Oh yes, she was having perfect fun - and when Joker caught her with his good arm by the small of her back, bent her backwards and kissed her, she kissed him back.

She wasn’t really thinking, that just seemed a right and a timely thing to do. He tasted like tobacco and blood again, and something spicy, dry and sweet as well, and his breath was so hot, and his cracked lips so suprisingly soft, almost silky. After what seemed like an eternity, he started to withdraw, and Harley threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again. He seemed to be taken off guard by that, but the next moment he was twirling her around and kissing her back - until the song was over, and a man approached him, clapping his hands slowly.

He was rather young, no older than in his early 30s, sporting an impeccable black tie suit, and his large blue eyes looked cold and sharp. But his complexion was sickly and sallow, and his back almost hunched, robbing him of a considerable share of his otherwise impressive height. These, and also killer, predatory smarts shining through his eyes, immediately stood him apart from the terrified crowd reeking of lazy pastimes and old money. __

“Ah, Mister Joker,” he said, in a voice unmistakingly belonging to one Oswald Cobblepot. “So good to see you enjoying my jazz night. And this must be Miss Harlequin? A pleasure to meet you. Would you mind joining me in the VIP lounge, please?” 

Joker glanced at Harley in an exaggerated display of heeding whatever she might say, and Harley played her part.

“Why not, Mr. Cobblepot, dear”, she said sweetly. 

The VIP lounge turned out to be a cozy, spacious room lined with redwood panels and dark red velvet. In the corner of it, close to the blazing fireplace, there was a round table with Murano glass inlay and four wing back chairs around it. Three of the chairs was empty, and the last one was occupied by none other than Edward Nygma - who was sitting rather nonchalantly with his feet on the table and picking at his nails, pausing only to have a slurp from a brightly colored soda can. 

“Hiya, Doc. Hiya, Mr. Jay,” he chirped and nodded at a TV which was apparently replaying a CCTV footage from the dancing hall. “Some way to come in with a bang, I say. Nice.”

“Good to see you too, Eddie,” Harley said. 

“Oh yes, quite a manner of spectacular entrance,” Cobblepot added sociably. “Now, Edward, if you don’t mind…”    
“Oh yeah, yeah,” Eddie muttered, taking his feet off the table. “Let’s talk business.”

“Indeed. Could I maybe offer you some refreshments? Mr. Joker? Doctor?”

“Nah, I’m still on my meds,” Joker nodded at Harley and rolled his eyes, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. 

“As you wish,” Cobblepot shrugged, taking another one. Harley then considered that she might sit down as well. 

The chair felt soft like a hug, and that was definitely not good - the exhaustion threatened to catch up with her again. Joker must have read something from her face, as he bent over the table and took her hand - a sobering, electrifying touch. Just what she needed to last through this war council - for the meeting in Cobblepot’s lounge was undoubtedly this. 

“So,” Cobblepot started pleasantly, “as my partner here has already mentioned, it is indeed the greatest pleasure to see you alive and well and in your natural habitat yet again, Mr. Joker, that is, roaming free.”   
“Can’t cage art,” Joker shrugged, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and digging one out. 

“Of course, of course. But since those unfortunate circumstances are now successfully behind us, I believe some… compensation is now in order to be discussed.”

“Harley here mentioned she owed you a favur.”

“Yes. I believe, the good doctor was rather adamant in her determination to help you out of your predicament.”

“And something tells me that you know the nature of said favour already, otherwise, you wouldn’t have been offering,” Joker noted, breathing out a puff of smoke. 

“I might have dropped in some ideas,” Eddie said. 

“I am not going back on my word,” Harley said dryly. 

“Very good,” Cobblepot shot her a polite smile. “Then, I suppose, I could kindly ask you to pay a visit to the GCPD.”

“Excuse me… what? They will arrest me on sight!”

“Or rather shoot you,” Joker commented. 

“I’d go for shooting,” Ed said.

Cobblepot waited for the room to go quiet again, and then continued amiably. 

“You see, my establishment here is of rather delicate nature, and what I value most about it is that all the slates in question are pristine clean. Iceberg Lounge is a respectable place. A  _ safe  _ place, and definitely not a mafia den. You, Mr. Joker, are more of a celebrity than a career criminal, if you please, but any person of lesser class would damage the reputation of the Lounge severely, and render my investments useless. Unfortunately, and thanks to Mr. Nygma’s zeal, it came to my attention that someone, using some ungodly cutting-edge technology from Wayne Enterprises, has accumulated certain… data. The records, of rather sensitive nature, of what might have taken place in the VIP zones of the Lounge, were it not such a respectable place. Now, if such things  _ did  _ take place, I would have very much liked to keep that films - in case, say, a dissatisfied customer opens a dispute that I would prefer not to be lengthy. But I wouldn’t have liked them being leaked over to the GCPD, no sir. Not one bit. And yet, this is what is apparently taking place as we speak.”

“Wayne Enterprises, you say,” Joker said quietly. 

“Told ya there’s a right clown for the gig,” Eddie grinned. 

“Yes, Mr. Joker. Exactly. And essentially, my business proposal here is for the good doctor to turn herself in.”

“I fail to see how exactly that helps your cause, Oswald.”

“Simply enough. In a couple of hours she will make a media sensation. If she shows up at the GCPD and turns herself in, spotlight will be on her - which shall give you, provided you have reassembled your little army…”

“My troupe _. _ ”

“Your troupe. Of course. Anyway, this will give you the perfect opportunity to strike and provide me with what I want. Which is precisely what you want as well, I gather - that is, merriment and mayhem.”

“Well,” Joker drawled, glancing at Harley through the cigarette smoke, “since Harleykins here has already said she wasn’t going back on her word, who am I to say no to merriment and mayhem? And after all, I  _ do  _ owe you.”

“Oh, nevermind. What’s a small favor between friends.”

Harley spend the rest of the evening in the frozen state she had already come to know in the getaway van. Joker sold her out. He happily offered her to be the sacrificial lamb for Cobblepot’s plan, and if not for fear of immediate retribution, she would have spoken up right there and then - but since what happened happened, she was fairly sure that would only bring her a bullet between the eyes. She stared blankly into the Gotham night on their drive home to the Amusement Mile, or whatever would serve to them as a temporary home instead. So that was it. She saved his life. He sold her out. 

“Well,” Harley said quietly. “You get what you fucking deserve, eh?”

Joker, who had been rambling happily about how the GCPD headquarters would go  _ kaboom  _ and how Bruce (apparently, Bruce Wayne, the teenage heir to the Wayne Enterprises throne and Joker’s known obsession) would finally  _ get it,  _ turned his attention to her immediately, and Harley cursed under her breath. 

“Nothing, Mister J.”

“No, no, won’t do, Harls. Tell me.”

“I said, Mister J, it’s nothing.”

“ _ Tell me!” _ he shrieked, and Harley saw Frost’s hands on the steering wheel tense. 

“It’s just… just this morning you said I’m not going anywhere, and now you’re handing me in to the GCPD,” she said softly, trying not to betray her feelings, but at the same time, as it seemed to her as she was speaking, betraying something else - that weird darkness that has been both troubling and caressing her, as she was now reckoning, not only for today but for a long, long time already. “I thought we were friends, Mister J.”

He blinked at her and then laughed good-heartedly.

“Oh no, Harls! Of course we’re friends, and you, doll, are my favourite! I’m pulling you out, and pulling a stunt on Penguin. Penguin. That’s Oswald. That’s how I call him. Get it?”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “He kinda looks like one in his tuxedo.”

“Good, because God, do I hate explaining jokes. That kills ‘em. So, don’t you fret,” and he patted her on the hand with his good one. “Albeit I am surprised that you fell for it, being such a brilliant actress yourself. Boy, you even got Riddle Boy believe it!”

“Believe what, Mister J?” she asked cautiously. 

“Why, that we’re a couple. I mean, that’s  _ batshit crazy,  _ right, and yet they fell for it hook, line and sinker. Oh, you’re a keeper, Harls!”

“And why is it batshit crazy?” Harley inquired quietly. 

He laughed out bitterly. 

“Come on, Doc. You’re better than that. I know people like me. I know I inspire fear, love, even awe. But that’s just  _ me.  _ Romance, on the other hand… I’m just not cut out for it. It’s  _ Arthur’s  _ shtick, to pine over some imaginary dame, and I’ve long outgrown it. So if you’re going to push that button to try to dig old chap Arthur out -  _ don’t.  _ Just don’t. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. I mean, seriously? Can you really imagine someone like you kissing someone like me for real? Like  _ that? _ ”

She could not bear it any longer. 

She tipped forward and kissed him again - this time, knowing well what she was doing, and the kiss almost weirded her out just with how  _ right  _ it was, how their lips, and their breath, and their  _ everything  _ clicked together in place like they were meant to be. This time, there was no blood, or gunpowder; there was something sweet, not sweet with rot, but with honey and flowers, and coffee, and rainwater and wind and sea, and tasting sea, she realized she was crying. Or maybe they both were crying. But these were not tears of pain - these were tears of finally coming home and putting the burden down. This single moment, even if it was never to happen again, was so damn worth everything,  _ everything  _ she had committed so far. 

He sat still, when she pulled away to take a breath, and eyed her like she hadn’t just kissed him, but rather put a knife through his heart.

“So that’s how far you’re willing to go to prove a point,” he said finally. 

And to that, Harley would have preferred a bullet. 

The hot, white anger surged in her again. 

“This was never about proving a fucking point,” she hissed. “This was never! About! Proving! A fucking! Point!”

“Harley…”

“Stop it,” she begged. “Stop it!”

He obeyed, and their ride home continued in silence. 


End file.
